In May you were hot. Electric, jangling, boyish, brimming,
fermenting in rich layers, internally combusting as your

hidden flammable winter self met the long light of spring,
sparking out in a spray of impossibly diversified directions,

including, briefly, this one, over here, hey, I flagged you down
as you flamed by and you screech-stopped, landing on my couch,

all legs and heat, all sex and talk, all trouble and lunacy,
and hid a squeaky toy under your shirt to delight the dog.

And now this man in icy blue, no trace of boy, hard gazes out
in white-eyed tension, unsmiling, and definitely preferring

that I don’t smile either, not to mention the dog. Three months
from hot springs to glacial cool. How did you do that?