The Memory Of Joyce Stirs The Trees At Night Poem by David McLansky

And I could smell Tennessee
Grass in your hair;
Your body, your neck
Bosomy white;
And see your red flannel
Shirt
Against the evening trees;
Catch a glimpse of you
Running
From the moth orbited
Porch lamp light;
Your sneakers sparkling
White on the gravel;
The over the shoulder wide-eyed
Glance,
Clear skinned with no blue
veins;
Thick dungaree thighs pumping
Over
The niight water tar,
Rising
Out of the weeds of the
Drainage ditch;
The O'Neils watched too
With a life-time of squinting
In their faces;
Now they are dead
And only is night now:
Tennessee black night;
My heart is choking.