our hearts in plain sight

and thus easy targets for the claw

or the hook

I take your fragile beating

in my spirit hands

and cover it from the examining sky---

love poems in this day

and at this age--I'd be

hooted out by craven generations

of nasty cripples

who are afraid to lower their sunglasses

for fear of being blinded

by the unguarded moment

the tender admittance of sadness--

when a shadow streaks over our ground

we turn in the shade of a rock

as if this were Ol' Possum's wasteland

where the bones sing on Ash Wednesday

and wait for the passing of the darkness--

those talons clutching the air in vain

for in plain sight is the power

of vulnerability to trick the predator

in the mistaken belief a hunger will be filled--

but our stillness throws him off

to look elsewhere for his satisfaction

while we hold our hearts

in such a way that no hunter

would be patient enough

to notice us in plain sight--

the very contours of the landscape itself--

Content (c) 2008-2010 Philip Milito.