by jim holt
It has nothing to do with elves,
it has nothing to do with
summer,
Mexico or any design of that
place we wanted to hang
on my wall,
nothing at all.
But, I did sweat so badly
one time
like a hot fish turning in my bed
when the desert was near
and the ocean was far away,
when you touched my leather face
to test my authenticity
as a pre-historic bird.
We were the doves of our
own time.
—-
i wrote this for P.D. in Toronto Jan. 13, 1984.
