Saturday, August 9, 2008
'...From Firebaugh To Cannery Row'
at the slew, slopes
of swamp cypress stalks
upthrust like sentinel
of time origin, of wild roses
moderne Bathsheba wouldn't know.
At the heart of the slew, the swamp
rests like a well-travelled
loin wrapped in spider web
half swallowed by a quick mud wave.
It rest like canthus meeting
wind blown cottonwood blades
As it mizzles summer silk snow.
The swamp rest as if it's tired of
concealing a batfowled virgin
She who doesn't know
Blithe of fisticuffs
she who washes off tears and blame
the ocean for another one.
She who carries a tote of
canned love and devotion.
She who prefers not to know
The meaning of one's divided shadow.