I am slip and sleeve-length

an evening, undecided, corduroy,
the edge of a river,
fish net, white, dimpled water;
here is my soft, my red,
my quick breath, morning’s
hi-lites, like a boy in his limber,
swimming, a blue curious,
one gray shoe on the wet dock.
This is tomorrow, fleece, and teal, and trimmed
with January, large glassed and looking
vociferous, interested, suddenly,
taller than dust, somewhat weekend,
penciled, summer, lovely, transient,
a woman in overtures,
that musical season.
All the startings, the forward, leaning,
into closeness, conversation,
the cuneiform salve
of the mouth, the runic, climactic, indecipherable,
body and sap—our legs, loose color,
like strings, shuffled and touched,
the redwood, spruce, vascular course of feeling
that delivers us,
shortwaisted, wide, leafless, whatever,
to sparkle, familiar, quartet.

by Randall Watson

published by Mutabilis Press

Shadows by jane hoskyn via flickr

photo by Jane Hoskyn via flickr

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