Phoenix, September 1977

• Standing naked in the front yard
• of my girlfriend’s house, 3:00 a.m.
• Sunday morning, a small,
• delicious defiance, air smelling
• clean, temperature in the 70s,
• breeze like cashmere across my skin,
• each pore open to the night, tingling.
• I could hear George Benson
• on the stereo inside:

• Everything must change . . .
• nothing stays the same,
• the young become the old,
• mysteries do unfold, ’cause
• that’s the way of time . . .

• And I didn’t care that it wouldn’t last,
• the exquisite now — without thought
• or analysis, past or future — this moment,
• stars grinning down, me grinning back.

Terry Hertzler has worked as a writer and editor for more than 30 years. In addition, he has taught writing at the university level as well as for the Southern California Writers’ Conference. His poetry and short stories have appeared in North American Review, The Iowa Review, The Writer, Margie, Nimrod, and the Los Angeles Times, among others. His work has also been produced onstage and for radio and television. His publications include The Way of the Snake, a book of poetry on the war in Vietnam; Second Skin, a collection of poetry and short fiction; and several chapbooks.