Monday, March 31, 2014

Sister Series


A neighbor wrings his hands over wrecked carpets,
a shame of ruin on the plowed driveway. Up and down
the block, pinhole leaks gather momentum
like some underground conspiracy.

We ignore the warnings, water the lawn, do the dull
washing up. Then our pipes burst. Mud spreads
in the water like a rumor. Gargoyle workmen
jack-hammer wounds into our basement, and the man
from public works scans the scene with cover- up eyes.

He stands where a sinkhole will someday swallow
the intersection, erasing memories of wet wool
and solder- stung air in favor of new worst cases, 
where a future plumbed with copper only guarantees
the startle of night-time clang.

The Persistence of Holes

After a winter so severe it turned
his hair white, he investigates termites
that have swallowed the porch.
The yard is mined with hornets’ nests,
the pipes with pinhole leaks.

To start somewhere, he hoses down
his SUV, water pulsing through rubber
while the sun stretches his shadow
into a colossus striding the horizon
separating earth from sky.

You always want to be elsewhere.
Across a wound, edges meet like old lovers.
Boundaries blur, filling with the element
that once contained them. Come here,
she might have said. Hold me.


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