Begin in September. The September before I knew you.Wake up next to the smoky hairof a woman you want absolution frombefore she, whoever she is, wakes.Feel the way summer air dieslike moths in the corners of her house,the fluttering, gray quell of your heart.Slip out so quietly she can’t contestthe echo of the unlatching or your bootson varnished floors. Open her front doorinto February, the February before your graduation.Walk until you find the high red windowof the first girl to break your heart.Stand beneath it. Think of her dark hair.Think of the night she came down to you,made you promise in the dark-wet foxtailsat the end of the street, the ocean air coolingher mouth as it opened over you,how the night was a knot she undidwith her slender fingers, then withdrew.Now, find wish-seeds floatingthrough the Augusts of your childhood,tangled in uncombed hair and the sugar-tasteof fried dough. Remember the exhaustion of fireworks,rain warming on the hoods of cars, thistles hidingin the long slender bodies of sweet-grass,sandy blankets rubbed with oil,airplanes writing names in the sky.And don’t come back to me, Love,with your kiss full of regret. Return to the homeyou built of twine and fallen branches,to the girls playing hopscotchnear the neighbor’s brambles.Recall the feel of sap, the rules of hide-and-seek,the bitter milk of dandelion dared to the tongue.