Poetry 365

The woods are green, the path winds
through blackberries.

You dream of his hands on your thigh,
you dream of his hands on your neck.

You follow
a narrow path, can’t smell
him up ahead, the bear, nose
deep in arbutus.

But always his breath
on your throat, his hand, his mouth.

You will eat the blackberried, listen
for the tremble of clear water
on mica-flecked rock.

You dream a cataract, an edge. But the bear prowls and eats
on the far side of the river.