Poem by Lois P. Jones
Photo by Kees Terberg

 
 
 
Sink Holes
 
You have to travel far before you turn it over,
before you fall into the narrow opening
of another.  Here near a dead sea the earth
unlocked and swallowed us.
 
We feared we would never be found alive.
We fear we are still not alive.
 
We wrote our wills on Styrofoam cups
and filled them with our sadness,
with the crimes of the search party
who would not pull us from these holes.
 
Our lowest point on earth
runs through you like a signpost.
We are waiting in this collapsed terrain,
the date groves tilting to burst.
The untamed side of the sea is shrinking.
Shrinking.
 
Give us the road that reaches out
of this amphibious world.  The sea has run away
from the cliffs and digs a canal.
 
             It says:  don’t expect a solution,
             expect to shrink and lose a century. 



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