The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Jeffrey P. Beck

Penned


Flow ink—
drip, drab, spill across
the lines, blot the page
black, course from angry wells,
wash over desks, lap leather shoes in undulate
waves, surge and buoy book carts like boats,
tossing the toppled variorums
in the wake. Let the gasping librarian slosh
down chartered aisles to call 911
about the impossible, passionate
liquid explosion, soaking the hem
of her dress, making her weep.

Gush, swell, pour—
spend mad storms of words—
out of libraries, through vestibules,
into the wary streets, where drenched
accountants clutch soggy
ledgers in terror, fretting consultants clasp
damp laptops to their breasts, and tsunami-panicked
masses seek ground high above the deluge, so guffawing
teens will click photos with cellphones, and so children
jump puddles, wade, romp, splash in the reveling waves,
plunge their spring bodies into deep ink
to play.



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