Inventory after Flood

Last night the river flooded

and hauled away my answers.

I should not have stacked them

so near the bank. I'm left 

with questions stored

in small dry places, bowed

shelves, bitter boxes. So far

the roof is holding.

Rain slaps and pummels

it in surges. I start

to unpack questions.

My smashed answers

roll and twist toward

a delta or a dam or just

rocks on the way. Today

I fret and squirm and

say What are they for?

What are they for? 

This only adds to a stuffed

frustrating inventory. 

hans ostrom 2021

Harvest Blade

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Harvest Blade

Hockey players in uniform float
down a river enlarged
by a massive ice-melt far away.

They hold their sticks high,
rudders without boats. Look, now:
they're followed by last year's

Queen of the Adrenalin Parade,
dressed in a gown of
acetylene blue-and-white.

She rides on a raft made
of synthetic whale-bones.
Violinists from broken

orchestras line the river-bank,
serenading all things that pass
on floods.  In shallows,

fish hear strings' vibrations, shimmer;
and shiver. And the glare from the sun
is a blade. It is a harvest blade.

Copyright 2011