Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Cross

I see the line stream top to bottom, a pipe

That pumps a current, never reaching up

To where the Plumber sits, watching, beckoning.

The bricks built up to push the water through,

Crumble over, the pressure unsubdued.

The distance outlying, no access of connection reached

By human brawn or taught wisdom as tools

That bend and break at touch to the canal,

Until the mountains squished, and valleys leveled.

Then, blind eyes are opened, deaf ears awake

When what heart-shaped words are heard, across

The other side, that other side, a bridge

Is chiseled in place. The current will flow, overdue,

As I posit firm, though lacking cues.

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