JUST AS, AFTER A POINT, JOB CRIED OUT
The soil froze, cursing the weather. It turned a stoic face
to winter’s switchblade and brass knuckles
so that when the warm rain came, the soil said, Go on,
there’s no room for you now. Let the backyards
pool up, and the river pitch to the bridges, dragging
the bridges down. Now the billboards will become great
silent rafts so anyone can climb on them and look out,
saying, I would have done the same.
When the water covered the tree trunks and crept up,
the ground shrugged. See, it said. Now,
weather, do you understand? Soon,
there will be no resting place.
K. A. HAYS
More about K. A. Hays.
More about Emma Burghardt.
This motionpoem is presented in collaboration with Best American Poetry 2011 (Scribner), with thanks to David Lehman, series editor.
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