SIXTEEN THOUSAND SEVEN HUNDRED AND TWENTY DAYS
Poetry should be read aloud
on a river bank facing the direction
of the flow

With a black dog groaning his dreams
lounging in golden-haired grasses
head on your feet

With a fisherman knee-deep in a sparkling
riffle laying out his snaking lines like unfurling
a bolt of silk

My lover lies dreaming golf dreams
hand over his heart seven iron leaned
against a tree

While caddis dance their swarm
of love knowing just what to do
if you've awakened

With but weeks to live:
Love up every minute
till you die

My lover says he doesn't relate
to poetry because it makes him think
too hard

And yet he makes his golf game
into an art form brings a practice club here
to the riverbank

And yet he watches the river
to understand the feeding patterns
of trout

And yet he knows the river races
through our veins and the moon counts
our heartbeats when we

Shine each other's skin until we howl
That feels a lot like poetry
to me.

© Joan Barton, 2002

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