Coming Down by David Gray

air

empty morning
(we keep trying)

to
spell out your name
in

the shape of the trees,
morning sidewalks

and

stoic little arcs
of
the sprinkler systems

(we keep turning them on)
and

the glue
that holds this suburbia
together

is
the empty longing
for

the coolness of you,
(the cheek tug and lonely burst  of winter),
and

how you blow through,
unannounced.
(we keep on going...)