Brad Flis
Water Poem
a screw-jack, a hook-rope, to disprove
the badly dyed cane, to chlorinate
a tone of voice toward next winter,
verse and worms around noon
and there, with her coffee pot
green, green Aquarius raining
torrents on glass maggots, glassless
boars that now green with shame
against these unvirtuous alders
blownover and fickle like hillside-
settled lock mechanisms or small-
pox in the varnished truth of things