POEM: September

the dried mud look of disgust on your face
covered me with a skin of lurid air one
that draped humid over us like spilled ink
& the sharp smell of chlorine was present
that we used to clean up the mess
it erased that greasy part of me away
with the sibilant strength of air
released from a derelict tire
soft, & pliant so mercurial
the way we are told to let things be.

Nothing was the same now with the sun-as-truth returned:
not our plans not our love not the "we" of our youth.