Naked in May

Not a wounded day,
I said a wound of day,
a gash where sun-rays
rent the dun field of sky.

Last week the earth-fields
were too wet to plow,
mid-May but still bare
mud-skin and corn-stubble.

Pretend you don’t see them
as you roll through
a strew of apple petals
and aspen-confetti parades,

All of us naked under
that same light-split caul.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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