“Coming to” – Luke Swenson

Steel flashes softened by ascending fog above the rising waters there the bent white neck. Waves beating against porcelain walls. Swirl. Slant. Swish. Bubble. Rebubble. Turn. Huddled tight & permeable, what pink froth now lies exposed atop high places nestled in the valley’s gentle bushland cleft against fleshy cliffs at low water. Blood rushes to the damp head with a blink long & how & when tides rise up the chest & seep into the slits of the high drain. Ten pruned fingers against two slick knobs turn. Where does the inflow go now? What suction drains the black that now floods younder iris?