This Time Yesterday, Redux

The last of the season’s swallows sing
Their cry almost childlike
in the crisp coastal air
We bundle wood in silence
Thinking about formlessness
We are but energy
The tired old mechanics of body
Steam rises from the lawn—
A fleeing elegy of dawn
To know about each other
What anyone ever really can
I SAY TO HER:
«Somehow, I’m never really fully outside nor in.»
(pause)
«When the cold comes, I’ll be gone.»
SHE SAYS TO ME:
«It's not you I’m going to miss. I think it’s just the feeling.»