Amelia Street.
Six forty-seven am.
Leash in hand, Tuesday.

Blooms leaden, heavy
with dew of yesterday’s storm;
soggy, petal piles.

I think of our last
autumn together, eggplant
cabbages with mauve

centres in planters
on the sidewalk, noticing
we no longer held

hands as we passed by.
August now, but the air hangs
with that same rotting

slowness as though it
were fall, as though the end of
another season.

I don’t remember
when I stopped loving you, when
I ever loved you.