We count the times we’ve drowned to live
—Pam Uschuk

A colleague—I’d known him 15 minutes—
confides that his wife takes medication for depression
“and so we haven’t had sex in years.”
Next day Wayne the postman
explains that he and Mary are married
but “we don’t sleep together.”
Why tell me? Do I drip celibacy?
For that matter, what are they really saying?
No need to decide; irresponsibility naturally
derives from this style of narrative,
still, they must have decided long ago
to watch for cars exiting blind alleys.
They must believe God has already come.
They must reckon borrowed time needs to be repaid.

In the ragged daisies at driveway’s edge
countless pollinators seek what’s left of “summer’s honey breath,”
a last sweet taste
before frost withers every green
stalk, before winter’s velvet horn drives
us into the hive’s deep core.

We see it so often by this stage of life:
we fake the experience, grind our teeth,
build a barn to hold back the cascade of falling petals
while the cantaloupe sliced moon sails on—doesn’t sail on.
For six weeks the blooms erupted like circus clowns
popping out a car
but don’t bet on those last unopened
blossoms to flower.
As if we’d dare
glimpse a future to desire.

As if I could still imagine a November.

As if it were my business to know.