Thursday, August 16, 2012

Eclogue

Dawn Potter

All the long day, rain
pours quicksilver
down the blurred glass.
gardens succumb to forest,

half-ripe tomatoes cling
hopelessly to yellow vines,
cabbages crumple and split,
but who cares?

Let summer vanish,
let the tired year
shrink to the width
of a cow path,

soppy hens straggle
in their narrow yard,
and every last leaf
on the maples redden,

shrivel, and die.
Nothing needs me,
today, but you,
sweet hand,

cupping the bones
of my skull.  Alas,
poor Yorick, picked clean
as an egg.

How rich we grow,
bright sinew and blood,
my eyes open, yours
blue.

[from How the Crimes Happened (CavanKerry Press, 2010)]

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