Town

 

In the small town with

the grey clouds like

quiet dogs

 

on the veranda with our

feet up watching ghosts

in the old corner garden

where the oleander dips deep

 

I am myself and not myself

again and again and again

until you find me through

the small water in my wrist

 

the channel where the darkest

fish run to the lake in my palm

 

It is raining.

 

You hold my arm there, on

the Formica-topped table

with more gravity than a

metal earth

 

softer than a soft sea.

 

I am yours driving down and

diving

 

homing around and around

and back again.

 

©Sugar Magnolia Wilson