Sixty

By Philip Booth

Spring hills, dark contraries:
a glade in a fall valley,
its one flower steeped with sun.

The there and here of her.
The soft where.
The sweet closeness when.

From dreams awake to turn her.
Remembering, remembering.
And now again. Again. 

Reprinted by arrangement with Penguin Paperback Originals, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., from SELVES by Philip Booth, Copyright © Philip Booth, 2001

This article available online at:

http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/1988/03/sixty/306138/