In the summer I worried about the clouds, and the insects.
I dreamed of condoms, of loose, slick plastic 
falling from the sky
to litter all the city's green spaces. 
I walked through office kitchens 
seeking fresh fruit and plans 
for the later than usual sunlight. I guzzled
Pernod. I took a chance on a peach, 
on a plum, on an old, familiar slang—
it looks overripe, 
but it could still be sweet. To give oneself 
an old-fashioned approach to sex: harder
than I'd like. To give oneself to a stranger: 
like removing a pit. 
I watched the men move 
through the darkening gardens; 
they embrace 
respect 
without seeming solemn.
I stayed. I cleaned my efforts 
in the park's frigid ponds.