When the weight of the Sun falls,
Like lead, onto the empty sidewalks,
And the asphalt liquefies
the rubber of the city bus,
When the air burns,
And the verve turns to smoke,
A train brought you back.
An encounter written
In some celestial chart,
As running into you,
In the lost town of our summer past,
Could not be a mere game of chance.
How punctual of us to be
Where the time stands still.
There are encounters
That rummage in the black box
Where the memory
of bygone desire lies.
I closed my eyes
And entered your house again,
Kissed you on the lips,
Slept in your bed,
Loved you on the streets.
I opened my eyes
And you were gone.
But this summer of my discontent
Refuses to leave.
How monotonous the light
That comes in!
Has time stopped in its track?
A heat stroke.
That’s what the doctor said.
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