I return now wearing two pairs of wool socks.
My fingers are softer at the pads, my knuckles are rough.
The skin of my wrist is waxy and thin.
The seawall has disintegrated at the base where the black water closes in
on the slick rock, hungrily.
Now it is late August
riding the bike you gave me.
The blue linen shirt is stained darker
where it meets your wet bathing suit.
I’m holding the dog, straining.
The dog has been dead.
The bike worn by the ocean air, the house, too.
I no longer think of you at night or every morning while I drink my coffee.
Waking one morning and coffee is just this,
the house is the one we shared and the bike is a gift you gave me years ago.