we were walking along the edge of the South Saskatchewan,
past the arches of the Broadway bridge, balancing on the rocks:
young and happy, broke as hell, hotter than we’d ever be again.
And a year later, that summer of knowing and not knowing,
summer of our heat and want. Summer you tired of so much
chaste yearning and led us back to the water,
our hands ecstatic, fumbling at zippers and clasps.
June of our river and burn. July of our unmakeable luck.
You in your kerchief, my long loose hair, our lives spilling out
in a tangle of red on red.
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