Thursday, December 4, 2014

To Be Water, (poem)

not in water—
not whale or porpoise
seeking sonar depths,
tiles of sun trapped
in surface glint—

but the wet ooze,
the slackjawed, spooky renegade
of slosh and wave, tidal flood,
blind mammoth rolled in slumber,
sexed up with trailed sperm, seaweed,
over sands awhorl in fierce unrest,
tails of skates whipping the floors.

or water in a tossed pail beside a barn
—a two-galloner poured over splayed fingers,
a rush of splash, uncaught and running free
across scuffed shoes, soaked into earth,
a muddy disappearing act, a moist shadow
finale without rot, or slow decay of bone.

or a rivulet of sweat on the flank of a mare
or the spit under the tongue of a liar,
or a final drop gliding on sclera
as yet unshed.

reprinted from "Every Burning Thing", Pudding House Press 2008

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