Dam #2 By Jakob Chapman

If spring had a name,
how could I speak hers
in its presence
without offending
the same season
with the sound
that suits her best?

If water could be bound
to only one place,
I would use
the new-found
impossible method
to contain my heart
and shut it away.

Until all bitter captivity
one day turns the sad
broken organ mad,
and sends its contents
bursting the dam wall,
racing around
desperate avenues,
until it finally finds her,
pools about her,

her white bare
ankles.