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.
Poetry 365
Inspired by Billy Collins' Poetry 180 project, I post one poem per day here, for at least a year. | tags by author or subject | contact me here
Tagged
Lightsey Darst
