Forgive that grit of light for settling

where the pit used to be—fruit will be hollowed

and hollowed again. Forgive August for coming back

and seeming warmer than the last. It has no choice

but to seem. Forgive me for following you

at the Chevron in Crescent City and I’ll forgive you

for smelling like him. Sometimes absence tilts its head

like a loyal companion. Sometimes my hands

feel for dirt after rain.