Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Golden Gate Park

I have lost a glove. We lie
on the grass; it is cold but

not damp. A loud blue
bird hops behind your

head. Something small
with fur is watching us,

bright twitch. Singing
men with long beards

surround us, then step
into the redwoods.

It gets colder. Geese
appear and disappear

in the clouds. You hold
my hand between your

two hands and rub.
The light dims like a pink

hood covering our faces.
On a distant hill, a marvelous
fork tunes itself in the sun.

1 comment:

Sarah said...

I'm in love with the last four lines.