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Lost Creek

ISSUE:  Spring 1987

That shallow fast-running
  creek. White
rapids. The mud-colored
  water breaking
in anger brittle as


You can’t see where
  it comes from
or where it is going
  in such anger
and how
  could you stop

once you’ve fallen
  and are being
carried away by the current
  choking, tumbling rock-
and helpless

drowning for miles
where no one will know
  your name,
or face.
  Like the girl

who’d drowned they said
  up in Innisfail
or was it she’d been
  beaten and thrown
into the creek so the story
  was Death but more

than Death and no one
  would tell you.
Not even her name.
  Though many times
you saw her in the crazed
  rapids white

arms flailing like
   your own,
hair drenched down
  her back, Oh many
times where the creek
  was fiercest where

light broke on the water
  like a knife
entering the eye. That
  shallow lost
creek, those useless kicking
  white legs
and no name you could
  ever learn.


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