the coming season
sits in a pickup truck
at the red light on the border
between spring and summer
revving the engine and
blasting ani bootlegs, arm
hanging out the left window
tapping the metal with the ring
given to her by winter
as she kissed him goodbye

gave him the finger

shaved her head
pierced her lip and
slammed the pickup door
and sped into april
crashed into summer so hard
that she ran three red lights
four stopsigns and
a telephone pole
but the season was so elusive
or perhaps intimidating
that she never got stopped uless she
sopped herself for gas station coffee or peoplewatching or
to write.

because summer
writes poetry
or at least she used to but she said
she doesn't really have time anymore and when she
does have time
she just
falls
asleep.

the season was about as
subtle as a mirror
full length
standing in front of me
watching my every move
determining my fate
with a sassy grin and
christina cox's eyes
[her hair's growing in now]
waving a finger

"you can't be this. not yet.
i'm only everything you
wish you could do."

and just like a mirror
i could have looked at her
for hours
from every different angle
trying to find an angle
that makes it less ovious that i'm staring at
you
but
o n l y
seeing
m y s e l f


as usual
the air was warm
like your smile
the mirror was
coldglass
broken