Flood overturns the order
of pond and stream, insists
on an ardor of rushing water,
of tree limbs and mud and
small, swirling eddies. Flood
doesn't respect a fence, turns out
the field's pockets, scours
the mint and nettle
from creekbanks.
Cause and recourse, flood pulls down
the sapling and great maple
together, no respecter
of persons. Flood loves
a bridge, loves to caress with its tongue
those high, amorous thighs.
Comments
Post a Comment