The cold wind that blew through my heart,
On that summer day had taken me away,
To where I met her at Powderhorn Park.
She asked me if it was such a crime,
That we were somehow still alive.
I took her hand and walked her to Lake Street,
Then said I would kill her if she asked me to.
Looking into her blazing brown eyes,
Brought me under raining grey skies,
When the fall almost turns to winter,
Stood on the West Bank over the river,
Where Berryman waved and jumped over.
We stared down the murky water below,
Shrouded in a wearily mournful mist,
Its arms reaching out from all around.
We held hands like summer on Lake Street,
Closed our eyes, lost ourselves, not to be found,
In the disconsolate wonderment around us.