PIVOT POINTS | Laura-Gray Street
Dusk meanders the creek, tingeing, tonguing
of bottles, a carburetor sunk in weed muck.
and clings to phosphate foam, then fades
without a glint. What could blink in that
No minnow sift; no change of heart.
Spring that silts forever, dead as the spit-in
throat, like a well deep enough for clear water