Even air now said to have something in it

called fall. Clear and unoriginal the fact

that seasons won’t change these days quite like

they used to. Each just sort of is always both itself

and the next. In this city I can’t begin to count

the number of streets that change names midway.

Avenue-University. College-Carlton. You and I

tried. We tried walking down a street once in fall.

It was night, half light, we found ourselves finding

a small diner with booths throughout and slouched

against one another making pen marks on our hands.

At work I find myself taking the side of those editors

who miss missing periods, meaning what was meant

to be two thoughts are now set down forever as one.

I think of this always each time I take my mouth across

the four words inked into your knees. Each time you push

into me. Through the air. The air that fall is in. It comes

through the window. You walk across the room in the city

in the air you pull the sheets back up over me over you

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