Obviously the Only Way There's To Be Any Hint of Sunshine Around Here Today
Crossing State Lines [Shirtsleeved afternoons]
by Rita Dove
turn toward leather as the trees
blush, scatter a last
few bright, weary wisps across
the great bruised heart of the South.
The spirit cup drifts
down the pond's moon-sparked highway.
Far laughter, shadows.
Love or poison? Your turn. Drink
to the star-drenched latitudes!