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2 POEMS Monica Berlin & Beth Marzoni |
WHEN THE RAIN SAYS WAIT, SAYS NOT SO FAST, SAYS THIS SEASON WE'VE MEASURED IN SO MANY stunned inches isn't yet through with us, isn't this what you wanted? So, turn your sorry back to urgent or at least what begs that banks itself against what's rising dislocated, every ramshackled- Made of less water we might absorb deluge, extend our limbs more water than us is water & So, all at sea & maybe worse waiting on the wires: that kind of course that drifts, that channel toward lost. won't contain what's coming in at the breach & won't anchor we can't figure water & So, the fields quiet, when these streets last disappeared. In standing rain we gape summer's edge back from the creek-sprung moment & it must have these years & then again as if out of nowhere & suddenly &
__ TIME ANOTHER LIMB DOWN & ANOTHER fuse blown, something about a door & force & whatever else, when the key turns the mechanism & more & more the bolt slips— looks like a body in this light what's closed-off or buried, even familiar echoes; everything that could just routine. Say trees shuffle a silence sorted & stacked & enough, Time was our bodies remembered. what verbs. & gone we know, but going tumble back into forgotten, not quite endless & light with our breath. Nothing solid bedded down. Only gone something & familiar & again & mean time come nothing but day & streets
__ "The knowledge not of sorrow," George Oppen wrote, "And saw rain...The road clear...the world, weather-swept..." |