late august poem

laying languid on nearly liquid tar
perched on your rooftop visited by others before me.
peering down on parking lots
finally, here.
here here HERE with you.
how many spaces
echo echo echoed over
until you are sung into my bones
and sunk so deep into the marrow
maybe tomorrow
what is tomorrow
when will this be an echo
will there be a last time
there is no time before this.
i have dreamed of so many things
the bright sunshine on the car windows
reflected on heads of working men and pigeon wings
will be bright in my memory when winter is Here
and your deck is bedecked with some other.