that poet was right about water everywhere.
the only security is a solid hose made
from the thickest rubber not on tires of a 1957 Ford Fairlane:
this we hold sacred, as is the practice.
any intercessions are called forth with a novena of mud and grease,
and must be offered to one with a thick skin,
a proper sense of humor, and a hotline
straight to whoever is minding the upstairs
during these cruel, raptureless days.
Tag Archives: work
Autumn 2023, no. 22
all fires are meditative, even forest fires
watching the burners I remember the year
the mountain burned, an Easten Kentucky town
flooded and the world did not end then, either
it’s all water now and fire:
the elements have finally taken me
governed by thermodynamics and pressure
I watch the wind and river traffic
in my dreams I feel the rocking of waves
the whole of this land ship not yet asunder
Autumn 2023, no. 1
a slow thunderstorm morning in bed
we try holding off the day, the river
a little longer like children
faking sleep on Christmas Eve