A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
She’s had a few drinks, looking over my shoulder
with her breast against my back. I’m showing her
something about her camera and I guess
because I’m seventy-four she thinks I’m past it.
She doesn’t know it but we’re both headed down
the river, the current faster now toward the delta
where it will slow down and mix its color with the sea.
She is a gift and a heartache: she won’t love me
but I’m so fervently awake. I’m all morning,
and my heart is heaving hard, full as a horse’s.
My mind runs, runs so careless over the meadow,
kicking up mud and scattering the ranging goldenrod.
Copyright 2017 Doug Anderson