I am not the girl in the picture.
I am not the smell of hyacinths.
I might be the boy.
I am off the record.
I am not a view from the island,
not the sound of waves breaking,
not parasols scattered on sand.
I am closed for the season.
I’m fingerprints on windows
that look out on rain.
I am rain that rains harder.
I’m not the new fashion, not
hands on a clock. I don’t spring
forward. Cannot turn back.
I am yellow caution tape
strung from pole to pole:
Police line do not cross.
I see the sky but nothing in it,
just spots on the sun.
Then the long twilight.
Then the crackle of stars.