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?