Invocation
Guardian of the water shrine,
shouting head
among the Roman detritus
in the museum case,
I have five springs for you
who would fit exactly
the flat of my hand.
No doubt of your power -
it flares up fierce
behind the broken dishes -
even though your stone mouth
is no more
than the hole
a thumb would make in clay.
There are five springs
in need of you:
from under the road,
behind the sea wall,
they leak across the beach.
You sort of human snail
held back in your hood,
your head lapped in stone,
look out for these
built-over waters.
Page(s) 65
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