I
You are annoyed
our drawers are full of rocks,
our books of pressed flowers;
but I know what you really think,
and besides, I will never stop.
II
Waiting by yellow woods
I held the weak sun on my palms:
warm and light,
like your socks you threw me
going to swim.
III
We reconciled
by a clear meadow stream, though
after embracing
you caught your balance
pulling on my ear.
Robert Hunter is the editor for Detroit Lit Mag.
Detroit Lit Mag 