Thursday, February 3, 2011


By D. r. Baker

There are nymphs that float along white 
rivers winding deep beneath the city.
They giggle and blush as they look 
up the skirts of rushing cars through
12 dark feet of asphalt, mud, and concrete,
and hold their breath as they pass by
sewerstreams of shit and cigarettes,
wince in pain as they squeeze up
tight metal pipes diverging in 
tubular mazes and dropping some
out the rusty ends of kitchen faucets
for fine china cups full of boiled and
minty nymphs, while some get lost in
transmigration to watch their friends gush
out the tops of broken sprinkler heads and
rain down the itchy spears of grass below 
as they puddle up where some sink back
to relive muddy lives and others travel
so far they actually reach that fabled land
of great-grandmother, the sea.

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