Betsy

It’s hard to measure distance, looking down a bottle of beer, when you think it’s crystal, the tremble of your bones, a river washes clear, a time to be explored, the hawk above the rushes, now hunts across the weir, along fast tides of winter, are you my lover frozen, somewhere close to tears, when I say it’s over, knees and face seek penance, a trapeze of wasted years, your eyes like an infant, should I record each tone, of your faded artists gear, a memory in each zone, If I appear listless, silver cups my ears, I’ll try to be different, bring me happy years.