poem

sent with me, letters
make their date.
i am on time,
on fog,
i roll spokes.
you ain't a saint.
green is your color.
july is alive in
our street shadow.
breathless i am left,
your breasts are letters,
q and z,
hidden until adjectives,
shyly,
reveal them.
you've conquered stoops
and fire escapes.
i walk.
and i walk.