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Thursday, September 27, 2007


by Dave Seter

My showerhead sings some mornings,
releases water confined long underground
in mazes of cylinders cankered with rust.

We city dwellers have great appetites,
lake the faraway rivers, fill the cylinders.
Pressure builds in chambers of government.

Pipe this water. Beneath stone-vaulted ceilings
senators squawk, stonewall legislation
resonant with questions.

Who owns this tree, that river,
which stone? Ashes to ashes, dust
to dust and mineralized rain, things

have no voice, but some mornings it's rain
makes the showerhead sing, rapid, elusive,
its silver running to drain.

Dave Seter was born in Chicago. A registered civil engineer, he now lives and works in the San Francisco Bay Area. His poems have appeared in various publications including Karamu, Blue Collar Review, Bear River Review, and Switched-on Gutenberg.