The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature

Evelyn Seay: On the Dock in September

Poetry

 

On the dock in September

Look at me so you can hold me up
otherwise I am lost
and fall to the wooden planks –
a fish flailing on an empty dock
with desperation in every motion.

I will find the water
when the lake releases an immeasurable breath
which rises into the overcast sky
and falls into the warm depths of brown water
percolating up
climbing down.

I will release, unfound.