MargenFirst: don't wash the clothes right away. Let the salt do its work a couple of days more.
Second: the sand in the pockets is not dirt, it is documentation.
Third: write down somewhere the exact way the evening went still at half past eight, like a big golden dog stretched out across the blinds.
Fourth: don't count the days that are left. Counted days wear out sooner, it's a law of physics.
And last: when November comes and the heating smells of old winter, open this poem the way you'd open a jar of August tomatoes, and eat slowly, with your eyes closed, sharing it with no one who wasn't there.