By Running Water Say you’re this stream bed framed by green willows luscious with mud and trout fry; channeling current through eelgrass, tendrils, clusters of waterbug eggs. Dream you’re the river accepting this onrush each blink each minute open as love’s vast capacity. One body pouring towards ocean, weaving blue murmurs from flint cliffs to sandbars flashing your twined ceaseless motion, your silver-coin flickers of hope.
—Submitted on 09/24/2022
Michael H. Levin is the author of Falcons (Finishing Line Press, 2020), Man Overboard (Finishing Line Press, 2018), and Watered Colors (Poetica Publishing, 2014). A lawyer and solar energy developer, Levin lives in Washington, DC.
Editor’s Note: The series title Flush Left refers to the fact that, due to our limited WordPress skills, we are only considering poems that are flush left.