The Ghost of August, Or, Where the Sun Didn't Touch

The air just turned. Like someone

flipped a switch

from hot to something

sharp, and needing wool.

So, the sweater,

pulled it down,

and caught my eye,

just there, in the glass.

A line. So faint,

you’d almost miss it.

A paler stripe,

where a strap once held on.

The ghost of August,

a memory of sun

I didn’t even know

I was keeping.

It’s fading, of course,

like everything else.

Soon, just skin.

No story,

no mark.

Just gone.

And I wonder, who remembers

that kind of light?

That kind of heat?

No, I don't know.