A river once fluid, now punching out the mud,
A sluggy pulse; a knotweed bloated,
Bedded on that gray mud compost heap,
Pig cloud slowly, grunting a storm—
Flickering lightning to a shape.
Sloppy with rain, douses the bowel-pulse
Of a river head that pumps to a sea;
In a mile, in a heat, mud stubborn, sunk in
A clog, mire-smirched in a hoghood muddle;
Bog bottom suckling with a mouth slot—
Dolt ripe for a digesting,
These, these obstacles.
Yet, the water spawn is fertile, pours into
A muck funnel leashed to a salt wave,
Leaps inexorably, flies to a brine,
Thickens in a sea basin, cleaves to a shore;
Far from the dried mud stench—
Taut fiber from the onslaught of the sun,
Now free from the common clay;
It is the sea you hear in it.
Listen, it flows impetuously till the mud is stone.
Copyright © 09/29/18 lance sheridan®