In August, in the City

We land in the aisles of British fiction

to soak in the air conditioning. Your fingers

play the spines of the Brontës.

I’ve seen you around.

At the farmers market with a lick

of bicycle grease on your calf,

your canvas bag flush

with beets. Or bundled, blocks ahead, urging

your little dog through the snow.

Today, you’ve scissored your clothes

to the season: cutoff jeans

and a sleeveless concert tee

slit to the hem. The compass

inked on your side points north.

Nipples hard-bitten by the cold.

You shelve Villette and music pours

from the dark curls under your arm.

Odd little bits of information,

writes Lawrence, stir unfathomable passion.

In three lifetimes, I could never read enough.