print previewback ANNA LENA PHILLIPS BELL
Swing
A metal frame, each side an A,
and a firm board, with a green bed
it holds, to hold you as you move.
A simulacrum of the breeze
that lifts live-oak limbs, myrtle boughs
outside the screen, around your ears,
a garland made of wind and green
you wear. You rest, suspended, ease
on ease on flat of board on arms
of steel holding you aloft
on evening air, and sway from toes
to head: progress, swing back, progress—
know you can’t stay the night, but slip
a minute into sweeter sleep. 