Summer, In Its Night

Summer
in its night
moved
open-eyed
through Prairie School
avenues and
empty eightlanes
past the furnaces and mills.

That thick stillness
of involuntary rest
coaxed apart
each slow moment
to filaments
of Cottonwood seed
and lightning
silent in the distance.

The sound of waves.

The sound
of lovers shouting, laughing far off.

The sound of

cassette
spindles
softly
unspooling
"All Cats Are Grey"
to the Bible
in the backseat,
near the shore.

Something sad, contained,
made its way
among the infinite.

Memories
of ourselves
near vast, open water,
tamed with distraction
by candy necklaces
and stainless steel
slides.

Later – much later –
inebriated
tide-racing
on ridiculous
stretches
of sand in the dark.

The story of that
which we would one day watch
disintegrate
was always written on our bones –

The compass needle
locked up sure
as an hour-hand.

We thought
because of this
that
compasses are true,
and can be known.

But they are not. Cannot.