Irregular at first, a few rocks dislodge
and staccato down the slope of scree
across the lake, until the whole friable face
sags in a squashed rhombus
then blasts and buries the shoreline baluster boulders
all the way to their boulder shoulders, baby—
after which a trapezoidal cloud of dust rises
and drifts limp as a severed blossom
until silence returns, and a breeze,
followed by the chop of newly hewn waves,
which roll across the surface to lap exuberant
and washed of all dust at our feet.
Robert Wrigley
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- Keywords:
- poem