from sinkhole, wash-out, cascade
that sheets a cliff-face; glisten us
when we shuck off mourning print
and cadet blue. Ease these fears
of subsidence and dam-bust.
Counter the wind that scours
those who come from thrashings
and revivals, dissipate the fog-shroud
that bewilders dump trucks
and six-tons. Let down droplets
that xylophone a cave-floor.
When storms rattle the pin-oaks,
when the sky is a bruise, give us
the smell of a pawpaw so ripe
it splits, a waterpot of spirit
and truth, a flushed-out creek.
Tell us when the hour comes
for a bubbling-up, a brimming-
over of cistern, or basement,
or stream, that we may bring
buckets, canning jars, our leaky
hands, and fill them with some pitch,
some slurry, some tarry soup
rising at our feet.
