“Prospectus” from Alliterati



If we should touch beneath the table,

flushing up surprised, rare birds

lifting, stealthy, under skin,

in what barbed moment might we meet?


If I should take your offered hand,

lined and brown, slow to touch,

to thresh and hone my cheek’s parched heat,

what chance might soar in these bright days?


If you should leave before the birds

have plundered all from craggy banks,

before the rushing creeks recede,

what dark, soft rain could wash me clean?

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