Jake's Flea Market

when his hands carry
the mouth of the flute away from his mouth
the lip of the flute away from his lip

heaven carries the cloud away from wittenberg
and the rains that all day’ve dived
into the puddle stop

and the puddle that all day’s overflowed 
into trickles away from itself
ceases to flood

and the tricklebeds carved into the mud
by the trickles stand empty

mrs kreschner at the black eagle doesn’t care
how when the busy water in the pool isn’t fed
rain   when it becomes still and motionless
as dried mud on a mirror

how when the air that sinks into the vein
that’s routed through the boy’s flute
ceases to be fed breath and settles to still

oh there’s beer in her barrel
and a tavern full for it to flow through