Thursday, May 27, 2021

Quail by Richie Hofmann


He addressed me as “my quail, my sweet quail.”
He was easy to obey.
It was a year ago in Connecticut, I remember the middle of his body,
the beach, a hollowed out tree in the sand, changing leaves,
the parking lot of a senior citizens home—
When will I see him again, I asked myself
while I was with him,
taking off my socks in the sand,
and again the next day, when I wasn’t,
and the day after that,
and the day I woke up
and there was snow on the tennis courts.

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