Reservoirs

They stud the skylight
waiting for somebody to twist
a spigot.  They wall the v
in hills to make lakes.
Water wombs, water wangs,
turn on and flush
shit and piss out
of the toilets of America.
Sun and storm wash paint,
fade the colors at dawn or
evening.  It takes all
the many shapes spilling
over town to grow.
Confluence, affluent:
who cares if
the water is tainted
when the source itself is
so filled with rot
gathered inside for ages.
The putridity of the human
spirit is purged by flesh:
flesh in contact with water,
water of the world,
the world and her wonder.
Sometimes, when the stink is
too much, I have to walk
out to the edge and touch
a water-tower.  It is cool, even
in the heat of day.  I look out
from there to what is
beyond.

                    published in For the Love of Death, the early years, 2nd ed., S.I.N., 1993.