SUCH COUNTRY AS THE LOVERS OWN
Such country as the lovers choose is no
tract for any but the saintly: there, a wired
fence goes down at the end of a graveled
road – each path thereafter, deer track,
bear trail, boundaries set by the stone
and weed as the reader discerns, butte-sites where
the lovers come down in silence, smallness of world
held pendulum-like between them. Such talk
as stills there is not lost, but given place:
a gap they could close with lips that kiss. Or pray.
In such country as the lovers own, skies
hover in the way of storms, clouds
the solitary fowl cross in search
of what must fall there: whether in parks or groves,
secret dens – the small acts born of privacy.
The storm begins and ends here: car's quiet throb
in the dark; breath of cheek reading shoulder; touch"
of her tranquil breast against his side; cold
flakes touching the hood like tips of arrows.
Every word he spends on that cheek, true.
L. Paul Roberts Poetry Foundation winner, 1981
© David W. Parsley, 2011
Parsley Poetry Collection