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Dave Bonta
I dream of sea
the raw and horrid cod
I dream in a green chamber
ducks and teals coursing through
I could not reach my wife
her thin astronomy
a couple of ducks content to eat
in the cold wind
this ache is my Valentine
Kept apart by the pandemic — my wife in London, me in the mountains of Pennsylvania — we connect each day through video conferencing software. She tells me of a scary incident earlier in the day when a man spat at her, narrowly missing her face, as they passed on bicycles. She watched in astonishment as he went on spitting: at a bystander and then at a runner, fortunately also missing both, before he disappeared around the corner like a figure out of some urban legend — “the mad plague carrier.”
pandemic time
stopping the car to watch
a pair of ducks
Summer sets…
stuffed red wagon
left at the curb
Summer sets…
toddlers churn
through the wading pool
Summer sets…
sweat on my left wrist dries
faster than my right
Summer sets…
fire truck howls
like a hollow tooth
From a sunken throne,
potentate breathes
in bubbles
Reticence
The wild duck fly over
From river to river
And so the young lover
Goes roving for ever.
They fly together,
He walks alone :
No maiden can tether
Him with her moan.
At the bursting of blossom
On her breast his head ;
He has left her bosom
Ere the apples are red.
Across the valley,
Singing he goes.
In highway and alley
He seeks a new rose.