We argued whether the dull haze over Portland was fog or smog,
two big-city veterans too far removed to tell anymore,
but there on the duck pond and nearing midnight--
its canted granite hard and cold against my back,
your face and hair so soft and warm against my chest--
it ceased to matter, who was arguing for what
and the significance of either.

The ducks were gone,
the night was rich as the mosquito's fill,
just as bloody,
and we were just as swollen as her gut
before I finally swatted her away,
and when I leaned in for the kiss
I took whole swallows as greedy as hers.

We loped back,
we ambled, we took our time, it's true,
and I saw the Columbia shimmering,
glimmering black and deep beneath the fog.

You were right all along.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...