Time later—a turn, to return, to remember—take in, captivate again.
Let’s get this heart beating.
Exhale.
These lungs—
Five o’clock the surge resumes.
Eighteen and a half miles.
Crayola 64 transcendence—pastel and pencil, ephemeral majesty.
The sun soaking sweeping canopies in melted butter.
Licking lips at ice cream scooped clouds slipping into rusty horizons.
Cornucopias of leaves the colors of a candy store.
Gaia how you flaunt, and so unknowingly—painting masterpieces in passing.

Acceleration back onto the highway as it intersects with more highways.
Filling every vein and throughway.
Transporting life to fringes—fingers.
Vehicles scurrying red blood cells, white blood cells.
Yellow purple, orange blue, black silver lining, four-wheeled, retractable roof cells.
Gnarled street signed conglomerations, overpasses, underpasses, metal, barricades,
flashing lights, white font on green, white font on green over asphalt
asphalt asphalt over cement, potholes, sink holes more asphalt
and 7,145,249 and 5/8ths fuming blood cells and half as many semi-trucks
all devoted on going somewhere.
Civilization, call it progress.
The Big Apple, it’s rotting.
Beloved humanity, is this your comparable superlative?
For in the approaching season you will tarnish the glittering snow scapes,
transforming marshmallow rapture into the feces-streaked slush of my sin;
into scattered splotches of melting coffee custard.

and i’m suddenly afraid
my ears will never soak in
that scent again.

Autumn approaches.

or was it the time
we walked in the park in
autumn sat on a bench beneath
the night acutely aware of our hands and the distance between them?

or was it that Thursday
the first time my lips fell into yours
in the background the treading percussion of Explosions in the Sky?

or was it that Sunday
at circle of hope when I calculated the exact pressure
of your hand on mine to equal the love of God and kept it to myself?

was it in old city
beneath the din of eighties hip hop
when I told my friends I would marry you someday?

was it in spanish
stumbling mispronunciations and incorrect accents
in an attempt better know those who mean the world to you?

was it in harvard yard
dressed as wizards wandering and wondering
where we could find the best butter beer in cambridge?

or was it the summer
we spent unemployed reading and mastering
the NY times crossword puzzle then emerged, merged adjusting our eyes to autumn?

or was it that night
in central PA when you showed me how
to cup both hands to carefully catch these drifting constellations?

I cannot say exactly
when
only
somewhere
between my hands and yours
between sunset and sunrise
between the top and bottom step
between the mountains and the atlantic
between jersey and philly
between te amo and mahal kita
between the upbeat and downbeat
between the first and last page of this notebook
between one thousand and one days ago and today

I fell in love with you.

and even to partially properly articulate this
it will take my entire life
an infinite number of pages
and perfectly placed kisses
(which is part of my plan)

but something tells me
nothing will match
the simple eloquence
of your hand
in mine
some evening
fifty summers from tonight.