I like wallace stevens.
this is a poem by my friend David Roderick, I love this man and his words.
The water smells like everything the soil held
yesterday, flesh that climbed out of it and flesh
that couldn't, ashes and milk and straw.
Suddenly, everywerhe to go. No fence or roads.
Bugs hatch from its surface and orbit our heads
as we watch it unrear chassis, dross the silent foam.
At our graveyard, the water pauses for a moment
as if in reflection, then pours over a stone wall,
rucking tombstones, raising boxes from the ground.
Purveyor of secrets. rainflattered carder of bones
that absolves itself by bathing us in muck.
It chokes engines. It rots our chattel and cows.
And the trees are shocked, their trunks swollen,
their bark flayed to the water like tiny rafts.
At least they put up a fight. Their limbs tickle
the water, trying to coax it back to its sluice.
But the river is mouthless, its only manner of speech
an effluvium that thieves into our noses
even though we punch them, we in the barnloft,
we on the3 factory roof waiting for skiffs to arrive.
Soon we will step onto boats and row across the water,
scratch our names on its face, float to canteens,
where folks will open cots for us, heat soup,
hand us bottles of water that our mouths cannot sip.
And a deacon's wife will greet us, a woman saved
in the very river that rummaged through our homes.
She will pour us cups of coffee, and sit opposite,
and watch us search for words for the rising water.
and DMX is pretty good too:
Y'all gonna make me lose my mind up in here up in here.