I am slip and sleeve-length,
an evening, undecided, corduroy,
the edge of a river,
fish net, white, dimpled water;
here is my soft, my red,
my quick breath, morning’s
hi-lites, like a boy in his limber,
swimming, a blue curious,
one gray shoe on the wet dock.
This is tomorrow, fleece, and teal, and trimmed
with January, large glassed and looking
vociferous, interested, suddenly,
taller than dust, somewhat weekend,
penciled, summer, lovely, transient,
a woman in overtures,
that musical season.
All the startings, the forward, leaning,
into closeness, conversation,
the cuneiform salve
of the mouth, the runic, climactic, indecipherable,
body and sap—our legs, loose color,
like strings, shuffled and touched,
the redwood, spruce, vascular course of feeling
that delivers us,
shortwaisted, wide, leafless, whatever,
to sparkle, familiar, quartet.
Poems used with permission of the authors, and may not be re-used without their permission.