Solstice.

Who are we?

As we gasp for water

Craning toward the sun

And the rustling of trees in the wind

Sounds like the ocean;

False.

Sixty-four days.

I dream of lights and sounds

Of songs and crowds

That fade into the background

Behind one pair of eyes.

I watch the clasped minds

As fingers clasp in the summertime

As afternoons are drawn back by cold starshine

In this false sense of spring.

And on the shore of the lake

Near the forest, a car slowed and 

swerved

It was empty anyway;