Wet-in-us

What flows has a bank:
to sit by it and live
with wet-in-us,

iron-made of shapes,
yea-by-yea big,
large to sit in.

The wet moves fast
in a thaw. We say,
“How high it is!”

with no mean
in hand to make
it fact.

Over there, a bend
shows ghosts.
Old graves

from the hill,
as grace moves left
thru fog.

Two boys with poles
and a black dog say
they fish “At the dock.”

But it was full-up wet,
too high by the pier.
Still, you will see them

walk (down low,
in a steep of mud
and leaves),

with dog’s
nose to lead
the way.

For Us to Dry Out

Our town sits on a creek
that flows to the wet
of a grand space

lined by two banks.
You will see the flow,
as the wet comes in

all full near the dam,
in sprays and mist
that steam the air.

A mile on,
the wet turns
to a lake.

A drone saw a man skate
here to the length of it. Just ice,
skates, beech trees on the shore,

and a score
of shapes-on-ice,
scrape-sounds

up to the soul.
When wet shows up,
you will lose your place

in deep runs,
slick rock,
and dead leaves:

all the wet will
come for us,
for us to dry out.

Jan Wiezorek writes and paints from the trails of Southwest Michigan. His work has appeared in The London Magazine, among other journals, and he has taught writing at St. Augustine College, Chicago.