SUMMER, AGAIN
by Brian Wiora
And whatever we couldn’t see, we created.
How did we used to behave in the dark?
It’s a temporary night like air in a mattress
and all our former hearts deflate.
So with these street clothes we go outside
and what happened? We forgot to kiss
by accident, impatience. In the flagged cab,
it felt like church and we lived with no worship,
just sermon and stain glass. A lot of weekends.
A lot of return in the empty hours, flipping
a light switch that turns off all the houselights
and turns them on, and turns them on, and turns them on.
Brian Wiora is an MFA candidate in Poetry at Columbia University, where he serves as the Poetry Editor for Columbia Journal. His poems have appeared in Rattle, Light Journal, Rainy Day Magazine, and other places. Besides poetry, he enjoys listening to classic rock music, performing standup comedy, and traveling.