Unmarked

So much like sequins

the sunlight on this river.

Something like that kiss—

remember?

Fourth of July, with the moon

down early the air moved

as if it were thinking,

as if it had begun

to understand

how hard it is 

to feel at home

in the world,

but that night

she found a place

just above your shoulder

and pressed her lips

there. Soft rain

had called off the fireworks:

the sky was quiet, but

back on Earth

two boys cruised by on bikes

trying out bad words. You turned

to reach her mouth,

at last, with yours after weeks

of long walks, talking

about former loves

gone awry—

how the soul finally

falls down

and gets up alone

once more

finding the city strange,

the streets unmarked.

Every time you meet someone

it’s hard not to wonder

who they’ve been—one story

breaking so much

into the next: memory

engraves its hesitations—

but that night

you found yourself

unafraid. Do you remember

what the wind told the trees

about her brown hair?—

how the cool dark turned around:

that first kiss,

long as a river.

Didn’t it seem like you already loved her?

Off the sidewalk: a small pond,

the tall cattails, all those sleepy koi

coloring the water.

Tim Seibles