Blood Brook Poem by Peter Campion

Glug then sluice for vowels.
Rock ladders for consonants.
Out of the mountain it curls
and glints
past the mechanic shop
scrap heap then tennis courts

and widens to a band
of silver that suspends

brook trout no longer than a hand.

My center of the world.
Source and burial ground
and only what it is.

I would be a liar
to call them
shepherd voices
babbling.
But they do:
crossing the concrete
under a trestle bridge
sprayed with graffiti and

ailanthus leaves
they call me

video boy seed packet.

You who are not us and will be.
We who pour ourselves
out of ourselves forever.