“Interstitial,” Ensign, Aug. 1982, 7
Interstitial
He stood this way
And watched how hawks
Hang, circling out of sight,
The blue shelter of sun
Bronzing his shoulders
Till they shined.
His feet were the color of clay,
His hair wore any weather.
His face was any man’s
Who wished it.
He knew enough to sleep storms
Or write in dust,
And when he stretched forth his arm
Butterflies played upon his muscle
While we watched and waited.