|© Beth Roberts|
In winter summer's a myth. Amiss.
I had breasts and beneath them, ribs
long as Abel's wonder, now this.
See the jagged horizon across
the cleaned chest? There a creature lives
in winter. Summer's a myth. A Miss
something or other nurse who bets
on the horses and has a debt list
long as Abel's wonder . . . now this
morning she says, Look at this:
You are full of your own moments.
In winter summer's a lisp, shhh,
I see the heart, my genie genesis,
doling out its furled concentrics
long as Abel's wonder. Now this
was like a kiss, a series.
Him beating me to the grass.
In winter summer's a myth amiss,
a long and able wonder. Now this.