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Thirsty for Greywater: 11. I have a broom, my wife has a broom, our daughter has a broom-- that's because we're slobs. I have a dishrag, my wife wields the shovel, our daughter--a measuring cup, that's because we're busy. Squash in the compost, tossed-out seeds start a wild spread. Old boards stacked in careful piles, needlenose tin snips and baling wire turn broken sticks into trellis and gate. Sump-pump sends septic water onto ornamental wetlands experiment. Washing machine hose snakes alongside the house, lathers iris, feeds the yarrow. I catch dishspill in tub and pail, toss beneath the red plum. Inside every drip, our black ink slides deliberately below the surface. |
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Issue #8, April, 1999 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.