A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
Shallow the trough of words between us, the grammar of inchoate
usage. I am here and you aren’t saying much. Be complicit with me,
inhabit my wherefore so apprehensive.
I shovel from the blanket on my cot and angle my head away from
the corrugated wall of the shed, widen my eyes to the broken rake,
to the tea on the oilcloth and the visitation of flies to its sticky
sweetness no longer frothing the pitcher.
Copyright 2018 Susan Sonde