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?