Wayward

 IN OUR TWENTY-FIFTH SUMMER

The crickets were early. Cicadas

Suddenly click in the trees, ten-

Thousand panicked clocks reminding us

It’s been—thirteen years

Already? Seventeen? I never

Do remember and who can

Think in such racket, tick tick tick,

Tock tock, extravaganza

Of sex and biting off more

Than can be chewed. So begins

Another cycle, another, each

Anniversary coming to make

Its own mark. What year

Did I decide he didn’t need

To understand me? As if we could

Arrive even periodically at

Such knowledge, could ever

Say this, then this, then this

And be proved right.