ISSUE: Fall 2019
Early mystery,
out of what century
did you, crossing sandy
farm road, ease
yourself, showing me,
a child, an occult beauty
matching the weird
attachment I felt to trees,
the gray, gilled sea,
or garden’s coterie of bees,
& again this morning, my knee
lowering to a bed of weeds,
your brilliant fontanel marquee,
emblem of old soul, its privacy?