Motor along, then blunder into the water;
a tap at the door, and pondwater pushes in
like a young man’s arm.
A spare youth curled in a flower-bed,
his feet work the pedals, he nods with his head,
he talks with his mouth, he works with his friends,
and drives them all to the shore.
Grasping lungs, pot in the enclosure,
new molten shores with crayfish delving,
crayfish mouths are digging, sifting
for transparent beasts in the muck.
The car, it whispers, sinks and sucks.
-2003
