poem index


Marc Woodworth

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by this poet

The smell of the reservoir-- 
its breeding and corruption:
that too was in our heads.

Our limbs across beds 
dense with thyme 
and the rough tongues of mint,

their needling scents 
against the unmaking odor 
of the water downhill.

The two of us in the night garden 
above that rift of water 
filling the dammed