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