Congestion on Water Street. She want apples and buttermilk. Packaged perfectly in plastic. Arms wrap each other. Not so tall wrapped in sheets. A dike pushes against viscous green-blue. Holding back. Rushes through lips, crumbling beams. It breaks. The old couch slides out the window. Wetness darkens shag carpet, illuminating psychedelic chrysanthemums.
Dorothy Jane sings, “Sweetest little baby, everybody knows, don’t know what to call her, but she’s mighty like a rose. Looking at her mama with eyes of shiny blue, makes me think that heaven is coming close to you. Think I hear the angels creeping round the bed, they come on tiptoe to kiss her little head.”
