May Contain Nuts

The Reservoir


This is not how he expected to feel
finding himself further from shore
that he can correct.

It’s almost a relief to be inside
this grey-water washing machine
on the spin cycle.

Its warm, dark clutches have him by the throat,
He’s a village drowned beneath friends’
better lives, mute taunts.

Trivia of his past days whizzes by
like strangers cars, rigid lines melt
nothing stays contained.

He’s shreds of being, piled thin strips upon
popped balloons, papier mache,
undone by water.