Walking by the Hudson
can condensation cold, hot sun sweat
and an excuse to be alone
figs fertile split of ruined ripe bursting
the rough bitter of grey amethyst velvet
green plastic cage of fruit in hand and salt-stain wood,
old orange rosehips thorned, soft smog.
Clover can not be anything but content.
Queen Anne’s lace adorned, a new crown—
a wheeling falcon, helicopter steep bank and turn.
The shallows, the deep, the current runs
like spandex-ed men do, unyielding lope—
tow boats faithful to the shore.
© 2019 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.