— it’s 1962 March 28th
it’s 2017 September 19th.
 
I’m sitting at the window on the 3rd floor of fog.
 
Day is rising.
 
I never knew I liked
 
morning lifting like a conductor’s baton.
I didn’t know I loved my body.
 
Can someone who hates their body love it.
 
I’ve always schemed against my body.
 
It’s just like all my other lovers. 
I’ve loved long roads all my life — the flat
 
macadam itself listening under the mist of lamps, no traffic at the
 
hour. I know that road is both obscured and obvious.
 
I know its lights aren’t enough to see —
I love to close my eyes and look at your eyes
 
and see if your eyes are still closed.
Kary Wayson is the Seattle Review of Books Poet in Residence for October.

Previously: My Subjects.