|Jul/Aug 2018 Poetry|
Image courtesy of British Library Photostream
with empty beer bottles up-
side down on each pole.
A thin whip cracks through the holes.
Kindling stick faces out
toward a tree topped cloud.
There used to be an arbor.
We used to wander with little
clothes between stringy leaves.
Waiting for the flashlight. Moth
hit against a half open window.
We used to rub bare feet in grass.
Before the banished shadow,
before guilt sutured our lips shut.
You were the tentative talker,
I was the head-down listener.
The grass is brown needles.
Shale sticks in my throat.
There is sleep for everyone except us.
The sky is pocked with holes.