This is the time
that cannot decide,
a penumbra of seasons
where everything hovers
between either and or,
string lights and marigolds,
and no one bothers
to enunciate correctly.
I am flustered, inarticulate,
prone to dumb conceits;
I don’t know what I am,
or where displaced love resides.
I only know that it is raining,
and that you are gone.
