clockwork

Green sunlight falls in a stretched-out grid on the floor:

the blooming of a new summer, and 
it was in the dying days of last summer

that you happened.

Across the ocean, perhaps your world is blushing green, too, but I imagine

that the pink-white teardrop blossoms fall not to sidewalks, but to rivers,

in a carpet cleaved by sunburnt punts.

I used to measure out the never-narrowing space--
between there and here--
by the intervals on my wristwatch.

A moment ago, I discovered that I am too used to sidewalks

to remember how many tablespoonfuls of time stretch between us.

Here my back is to you, and the sun is falling.

I know, at least, that it has already fallen where you are

and this might make me feel better.

But I’m not sure if it does or not.