You’re the persistent fish swimming
the same surviving river, un-skinned
and unhinged by a year of bad weather.
Lost ones in the bones, your water
damage, your rage of flood and fire
and still, all along Warm Springs Road
the naked ladies have the nerve
to flower pink and full. A choir
of constant blackbirds and bees and
you cannot miss them more. Go bury
your head in the tough and wasted
weeds so you can hear the beating
deepen, the blazing suddenness of
a wound overcome by wonder.