Summer Ends as a Woman Takes her Coffee Break

Like Autumn,
I will need to change
my life again. For this
woman, how she leans
on the black chair,
as if she had always been
a girl. The dry creek of
her back,
the naked feet, both have
waded here
together from a shallow river of sun.
And spearing through
her hair, a birthmark,
like a reflection
of an arrowhead,
the first
leaf bruised with cold,
but pale, as if
she had been painting,
in case winter
was coming again.

Mariela

I never called you, did I,
before you died. Maybe,
I knew too much, already.
We made love
in that TV-lit motel room,
in Vermillion Bay,
left my glasses by the bedside
digital clock, afterwards,
as you and I lay together,
I saw through a part
of you: a few strands
of your hair, the blurry channel
I left on mute, cracked,
but too bright, too.