" Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp or what's a heaven for?" Robert Browning

I hear the mountains spring back to the moors.
strangers look up and down the brown-blue mountains
seeking summits, I guess
and it is always the weaver of water who welcomes us
into the new H2O, the fish screech to taste sharpness,
& swim in order of merit as we water tears at our home coming

Fear wars over water
Fear the profound craziness of Israel’s grab for the rivers of Jordan.
Listen to the laplap lapping of the weedy Bollin 
and I am, for a short time,  no longer firsty or secondy;
Instead,  I speak, weep with whiskey
overwhelms the rhythm of my heart.

Water passes through eleven bodies before I can drink
water peeled me of impurity;
my glasses of solid water draw patterns on the dry floor
as water slides down the buttons of undress
slip-shod shoes are polished by water into patent leather wonders
the smoke from an old cigarette, so easily doused with water,
how sweet grapes attract the palate.
as we wait for significance to grow like a vine.

Some sell flowers outside graveyards
Some muster votes at election time,
Some abuse power outside
a chapel of dark jerusalem vines
And just do not care.

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