Late October

There buildings blur, stitching
across the sky’s shoulder. Runners
thin into the horizon. If I could
stand just a little bit taller, perhaps
I could see them all at once. Will
my gaze be a caress? A kindling?
A silent reminder of what’s left
unsaid? You turn away. Your eyes
don’t hold mine. My breath finds
your neck. You lean closer, shadows
blending into one as the Hangzhou sun
scattered into buckshot, not bird
nor bullet, but wild, rippling through
the autumn air. It holds what
you don’t talk about anymore. You
look ahead. Your vest flares electric
marigold. Your steps flick through reeds
with a certain hush. I follow. Your pace
thrumming in my ear, a heartbeat
I memorize. Our palms snap into each
passing spectator’s. Each other’s, then
part. Light breaks over the edge
of the cornfields, the riverbeds gone
dry. I used to flinch. Now, I hold
a watch. I hold your gaze, slicing
the field into the parking lot. I know
where the pocket of light begins:
waiting, just beyond the shadow
we make as you pass, the shadow
opening like a palm I step inside.