We stop to think of you in the failing light,
your radio silence is complete.
It’s the end of August, but Autumn’s chill
is already foreboding.
Still, the garret is a good place to hide
one’s shame at love’s rebuttal.
As we look out over the chimney pots,
roof slates and aerials
of our post-industrial town, the light fading
exponentially, as if allowing
for failure in our lives, we will conjure
summer’s fruit picnic
on the mezzanine floor, before and after
the radio waves fell silent.