previous next

“Interstitial,” Ensign, Aug. 1982, 7


He stood this way

And watched how hawks

Hang, circling out of sight,

The blue shelter of sun

Bronzing his shoulders

Till they shined.

His feet were the color of clay,

His hair wore any weather.

His face was any man’s

Who wished it.

He knew enough to sleep storms

Or write in dust,

And when he stretched forth his arm

Butterflies played upon his muscle

While we watched and waited.