The Leach Pond

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Sulphur saturates air by the ear
listening to gravel pop under truck tires
slow along the ring road, men surveilling. 

The girl drops to her knees.

And already we feel the prick of suspicion
burn up the nose, so much apple rot
evaporating, lixiviate intrigue. 

But let’s not take her yet from the cry

of a kestrel, quail trill, rattlesnake grass hiss,
water lapping at dirt clods, elements
the ear renders to fatty globules of sound. 

And even if we’re well equipped to read 

a scene – cattails erect in their shafts
erupting with fluff, giving it up to the breeze–
we have no way to warn her. 

So let her dip the plastic cup in, screw it

solid into pebbled soil, watch pollywogs
eat away at stars of clustered scum.
Let her be oblivious to periphery idling 

because we like it like this, the simple I want

to know what’s in there, minute attention
to miniscule bursts limning Acacias first
what starts the whole redress of summer. 

Because we have no other way to save her.

Tuesday, July 15, 2014