Timothy O'Keefe


Little Arithmetic

She suns on a hill,
all the field becoming
its color, horizon
what she cannot feel
but aligned, lighting
the North Pole northerly.
A green wind winds
shoal to shoal, fallow coast, and spring
piecemealing Spring, sewing leaves
on a white camisole.

She and he and the lake are
mostly water. Look—she won’t
take his shrug as such-and-such
a sign—red pouring, pining for.
A canoe, skinny trees as far
as the eye projects
summer spaces.
She and he and water are
the color of whatever holds them.

The leaves are down, the leaves.
The forest blows a window, a waiting-to-be.
She thinks in red-green. He thinks brown, brown, brown.

© 2008 Electronic Poetry Review