Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?

The suite of days temper
my sweetness with the wash
of slow regreening by the highway.
 
I’m not sure what to say
about sameness—about something
like the sun juicing itself anew
against the treeline each night
 
behind the buildings where I live—
where you used to live. I sit
in shadow and I do not mourn
light here—you and then and winter
all away, away from me.

Northbound, southbound, and scared

to death of change: the empty-
and-refill of the Kentucky River
and its occluded, siltened waters.