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.

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