by Gideon Burton
As strange as this may seem – no doubt it will –
the water must receive another name.
Not what its color is or how it spills
across the oldest stones or how it frames
the patterned desert with its silent, white
abandon. No. Perhaps its oil, its crude
antiquity, the way it stains with spite
the spongy tongues we multitudes of rude
imbibers couple to its coolness. It's alive,
you know, malicious with its salty tides
for eons grinding sand the way the hives
of hornets prick the evening with their sides.
A name as sharp to sting, but in degree
sufficient for this moon that rips it free.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - Stuck in Customs