By The Rail Creek I Wait, My Pomegranate Crush

The rumours have you, anger brilliant 
At my peril, I of course misdoubt 

Rain falls like wolves
Chasing lithe bare earth
In gouged ochre
Upraised in spirals

There is a smell of rags and cans
Of death and lightning
As if the carcass, ripe for burning, summoned storms

We cross in the weft, to a greased unconsciousness
Hollow where the water
Flows through mouths like fishes
A jar of reeds to catch
A kind of stillness 

At last you come
Out of a yellow evening
Leeches bright on your skin
Offering in swollen fists
Broken pomegranates

Not for me, not, for me
A cattle stink
The dragonflies drone out
A passing train

i have come to watch you drown, not catch a fish