raising it up on its hind legs, bringing it down
like a mouth over the fluid green to sever
morning glories, nightshade, a ganglia of vines.
Spirits of mint swim upward from shock.
Nothing escapes the power
that scathes the lawn. Nothing
but the white, sunken face
where Emily's pool was.
(c)Suzanne Clark Rhodes 1999
from What A Light Thing, This Stone
Sow's Ear Press, Abingdon, VA
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