A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
for Jane Kenyon
What can I name my grief, again, today? A nickel frozen in the sidewalk? A tumbling paper bag? Where can I go, again and again, that I cannot smell the stubble of your cheek, or trace the curl of your thumb against my breast? You play with me thoughtlessly like an old band-aid. In this city I can walk for thirty blocks. The air feels like cold tar soup. Once in a while, I pass a tree. It only shares that you’re not here. April 7, 2019, City Lights Bookstore, San Francisco.
Copyright 2020 Elizabeth Star Dylan “Chris” Moran