A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
He would come just before dawn to read the meters.
Skull deformed, one eye larger than the other.
Then back in his truck and gone before the rest of us were up.
I’d been up all night with a broken heart and saw him.
And I thought, even he knows what is beautiful
though he is not. Or perhaps he is, inside him
a landscape of bounding antelope and desert wildflowers.
Copyright 2020 Doug Anderson