The Edge Of A Reservoir
She told himbut waits until the lashes (lakes)what do you see?the sleeping sightthe weather of Motherthe wasteful alone alove the edge of a reservoir so high up (in your clouds) I am a fire pet she said someone is the judge a kindness of the hand toward youwisely a breathcomes to being out of the language of the lovinga relentlessness like the leaves
the grass is nowthe whole worldas tall as you areand as rhythmicas you need to be I think maybeyou’re a contributionof pouring stars down my shirt he saysbut the year wanders. they wander.
George J. Farrah