The Copper Flood

The river does not sleep tonight.
It rolls against its banks,
Anxious and eager to eat up the roads
And the bridges,
To bring chaos and destruction
In the wake of the blood moon.

The river whispers copper words
Under a black sky,
Desolate and starless,
Cloud cover so thick even the moon
Cannot see through
And blood runs thick
Through the memories of the flood plain,
Wild and corrosive and as apathetic as ever to humanity’s encroachment.

The blood moon, harbinger of the copper floods across the golden singing plains of the wide valleys of the Winooski,

Tidal deficits across the face of our
Corrosion hard in the hands of bridges
And the arms of pavement.

Dreams tonight will be filled with the lingering scent of Irene,
That bitch storm that tore us apart.
Strong smell of rabid woodblocks
Seeped in the butcher’s blood.
Families still displaced,
Still wandering through the broken bones of their homes,
Ghosts lingering beneath that black,
Rolling water.

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