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.