if the spirit moves you by Mat Gould

huddled away from a soft rain

waiting out its drifting hour

giving ourselves back to another day

spring was long over and somehow the summer was in the middle of ending

yet still full of long nights having an affair with the dallying sun

lovers that must part but are holding on

as they too are waiting out the drifting hour

I speak of such easily

all of this

waiting it out

waiting for what?

I am only certain of nothing so much as the drunken later-