JULY

In the basement of a house in Nova Scotia
we sat together on a single dryer. Your dress
was long, the color of your eyes. It was the emerald color of your eyes. It was the color of Rimbaud's green nights.
And Lorca's green, the color of his mind. That August, in the silence of a different house, by another sea, I
played a game: if the crumpled paper thrown across the room falls in the wicker basket, this girl will be my wife. For certain then.