Old Convertibles

Peter Cole Friedman

Another summer day walks back
and takes off its antlers.
You wish the people would drive slower
for that kind of thing, limit their intake,
but I get it. I know what happens
when you hook a ballet
up to a supergenerator.  There is a looseness
we aspire to, not forgetting
the dailyness of skin or
limes in beers,
and we mistake it for volume,
though it is something more
like a waving palm
against the sun, the shadows derailing
into the ocean, the ocean into itself, maybe
the shortwinded memory of a train.