Well, spring overflows the land,
floods floor, pump, wash machine
of the woman moored to this low shore by deafness.
Goodbye to lilacs by the door
and all I planted for the eye.
If I could hear—too much talk in the world,
too much wind washing, washing
good black dirt away.
Her hair is high.
Big blind ears.
I’ve wasted my whole life in water.
My man’s got nothing but leaky boats.
My daughter, writer, sits and floats.
