Monday, June 14, 2010

Of you

the engine sputtering to a stop
overheated, parched
and looking for water
or something like it,
to cool itself
or find its way-
a way, some way
every which way
but here, but up
but alive,
cold or hot or warm or tepid or stagnant
it smells like a river, no--
a pond,
land locked and gasping,
torturing its banks
complacent upon belief
reticent after charging,
reflective like the surface
of a muddy brown
reverential peace.

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