Out From Under Heather Bourbeau
Worms, expelled, writhe on the running track, seek dirt as my feet freed find their rhythm again. Hail rests on redwood debris. The scent of rose mixes with pine. Seagulls pass over powerlines, a plane glides east. Camelia blossoms still pink, freshly blanket a bench, Unaware, in their persistent flush, that they have died. In the gutter, a browned stub of a Christmas tree. In the sidewalk, a half-eaten pizza. Wet cheese, watered sauce. On the grass, a Target box half-torn. The ground is soft with saturation, and I wonder what happens to those we have buried when six feet seems so shallow as the floodwaters rise.
glassworks 52