Fawn In The Grass
What I can say for myself is
that although my faith is faded
from the killing glare of
too many false angels
and although my hope is as flat
as the dark under a stone
and although my wishes for myself
are as small and brittle as
a butterfly’s wing in
a campfire downdraft,
it feels good to lay
safe as a fawn
in summer grass and see
you real as real
and touch you solid
as anything, as good
as fresh baked bread
in a hard winter,
as good as that
and unexpected.
