So the road welcomed the ice. And the ice lay down.
Water the bulk of every
blood cell already. Solidarity, sister!
When spring comes
we take notice after
winter’s long fierce sloppy drives through winter.
Spring is a forgiveness,
a forgetfulness. That old saw—60 percent of us soaked
or drunk silly with water?
I mean, water!
friend for life.
At a phone in a public booth once, where
a friend passed out, he who
we rushed to the ER…. They hooked him
to a glistening bottle, hung it high
to fill him back up.
Dehydration, no biggie
but good thing
you brought him here, the one in mint green
with a selfie ID said before there
were selfies. You should flood yourselves too,
she advised—to the brim! I pictured
an ankle’s worth
down there, the drip method,
a welling up.
Water in the human eye is
this or that percent and I’d blurt out some
insane number. Check Google
if you want.
But I saw ice. Saw through it.
And water recognizes water however little
or a lot floats
the whites of my eyes
to buoy up the meager blue
circling the darker bit
that makes out a car about to crush ice into potholes.
Time flows like water. Or both time
and water ache to stop cold since a cliché is
never what either wants out there
in front of everyone.
You get older.
You freeze in secret.