The summer before
the Tuscan sun was lighter than photons,
offering nothing to build upon—
Siena. Unforgotten,
lost inside its own sprawling time.
I couldn’t bear it.
I wanted it
darker. I colored it so.
Here, a memory reimagined with grief
for someone I did not yet know
who had not yet died:
a window
a song
a big black car
my virgin wrist
virgin by two years
because after so long
sins forgive themselves,
at least then
when two years felt like a long,
long time. Now I cannot comprehend
how anyone measures time.
We have not yet an end
to compare these lengths against.
We are lost, too.
Piper S. McKeever is a poet, philosophy student at Reed College, and strong proponent of the American sonnet.