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Volume 12.2

John Fadely
—
Topography

It’s not as if I had
a mind to be diverted, 
my flow valved
and concrete-lipped, 
nor was it my intent
to be kissed by mouths
of vapor fluxing down 
from the Pacific, acres of
my aquifers washed out to sea.
These weren’t of me.  
When a sinkhole swallows
two cars whole or the Salinas
running swift and wild
to the coast sweeps a boy 
away, I’m the natural
not the disaster: 
nerve endings
on the face of it,
the sway before 
the shimmer and shake,
fossil bed for unclaimed bones.

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