Aftermath

The earth hereabouts is past the point

Of wet, resuming the long, slow dryout

That started with August. The asphalt

(Not earth exactly but of it, from it,

Atop an ungodly amount of it) serves

As the surest gage, slate softening to

Tarnished sterling, all the glisten gone.

It will take longer for the high waters

In the hills to draw down, longer still for

What was broken to heal—if it ever can.

Tomorrow is a lie we tell ourselves

To get through today, the expectation

The current will carry us steady on

Unspoken beneath every heartbeat

Until the river roils and reveals the

Precarity of the instant, let alone the

Hour, or recedes and leaves us like

Driftwood to dream of yesterday.

9/29/2024

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Faith