A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
The next day she got up because of a dream.
The railroad cars were loaded with pale lumber
in the sun and all around were green-gold trees.
On the table were honey and salt,
six cents and a notebook.
The smoke from her cigarette and the steam from her coffee
curled upward like prayer.
A gray and white pigeon propelled itself across the sky
and green leaves fluttered like a conductor’s hands.
Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Romero