In this is a poem,
flowing thru and over the stones of language,
a bed for a restless body.
Somewhere here is a poem,
behind and beneath the walls,
impounded as so much sound unspoken.
The glass before you
holds a poem,
both transparent,
one delicate when presented
the floor.
The poem is rushing,
brimming, tidal in its own surface tension,
held smooth and blue until the tipping point of pressure,
when it slips over the stones,
the walls,
the glass broken
and spills downhill
over the homes,
the fields
and farms,
white spray
finding shape in the valley
where you stand on the shore,
where you bend down to drink.
The river,
the dam,
the cup
is not
the water.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
In this is a poem,
flowing thru and over the stones of language,
a bed for a restless body.
Somewhere here is a poem,
behind and beneath the walls,
impounded as so much sound unspoken.
The glass before you
holds a poem,
both transparent,
one delicate when presented
the floor.
The poem is rushing,
brimming, tidal in its own surface tension,
held smooth and blue until the tipping point of pressure,
when it slips over the stones,
the walls,
the glass broken
and spills downhill
over the homes,
the fields
and farms,
white spray
finding shape in the valley
where you stand on the shore,
where you bend down to drink.
The river,
the dam,
the cup
is not
the water.
