She steps softly away from him,
the sun lighting the George Washington Bridge
into a cut-out, all edge:
her hands don’t fit together,
don’t fit into his hands,
and it’s hot.
The silence before a fight seethes
like melting ice into a cup of tea.
But it’s not the temperature that tears
it’s the thought
of dropping the ice in.
They’ve already reached the end.
of the path. Stepping out of the park,
her white tennis shoes glare
like daisies along Riverside. Each step:
He loves her. He loves her not.