The Swamps That Close

I.

Out of my car,
flat useless tires,
I walk route 671
growing dark.
crickets
bleed
from every
tree
frog throbs from stump
all muscle

the road
softens,
breaks,
painted
white lines
lost
in weedy
asphalt,
my ankles rimmed
in cold, green
water.

low marsh sleeps
with caw
caws and
hoots,
bobbing cattails
rocked
by hunting mice

the breeze is thick, low
flips the green
underleaves
of giant fern,
herds purple
blood cell
clouds.
splash
and groan
of old reptile
rolls from below
shallow swamp.

II.

Out from the house
water bubbles through fields,
roots slither close to touch
warm brick.

The yard cannot restrain the edge of woods.

Jeered by dwarfish underbrush,
wooden fingers grapple
the frightened dogwood.
Planted, she can’t hold back
the smooth green buds
urging her skin,
the wild flush
blooming.

 

From The Swamps That Close

copyright 2004 Tyler Johnson

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