Summer Without Forwarding Address

Sweeping motions made with fingernails on dark street glass windows glowing warm cast candle fire on one cheek, the other wind-striken and free to wander as it will. Albeit a little harder, a little tougher, a little less sensitive to the touch of a strange gloved hand when a Boston Christmas shopper might reach with indefinite and thoughtless emotion, or actually imagines this touch behind his eyelids for a moment as he passes. But these sidewalks do not cross, they are parallel lines into a snow storm the likes of which loneliness had not known some many years. And she wonders and he wonders if anyone wondered when the goddamn summer planned its slow burning crawl across the sweaty streets. Yet the stars carve sharp little penknife points into a letter not bothered to be read because it would be much too boring to remove it from its envelope with the pretty looping letters and postage. And who cares who it's from, who can tell with fingernails on dark street glass windows glowing warm cast candle fire on one cheek, the other indifferent to the stars and the things they may carve.