A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
The window was open just enough
to let in the cool night air. September—
like always—the two of us talking,
in bed, about the garden, a late flood
of tomatoes, sweetness amid the weeds.
When we heard the noise—hammering
coming from somewhere in the dark,
we got up to see—lifting the pane
a little higher—our neighbor staking
a banner to his yard. He pounded
on and on, beneath a sickle moon,
the rustle of leaves, and we shivered,
as if we knew what would follow,
how the slogan would still be standing
in winter snow, and well beyond.