Slack

We rest on the green,
soaking sun, stroked
by the flicker of hawkshadows.

I could beg for a gale,
to watch you vault up its back,
climb its round shoulders,
swoop on the buffeting

or bury yourself like a tossed coin,
a spiral diamond plunging deep
with the snap of new weight,
then lost.

But in this peace,
in this peace, what choice?
I might scratch a racing hover
from a sudden charge,
only to pant as you pass
and silent, resettle.

You press the grass
weightless, unfluttered,
while the hawks rise like vapor.

 

June ’00

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