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.