Nothing is true in Dallas.
Streets run askew at its heart
and constantly prank the compass mind—
erratic radii off a bucking colt of a river,
lately bridled and channeled.
Drive out and patterns regress
to norms of latitude and longitude
but even here the creeks
jagged bolts of river
strike and twist against a grid.
Honest people in this town
those who think they can
straighten what God has made crooked
tidy what She left a glorious muddy mess.
Tonight monsoon rains
surge in a river that leaps its banks
runs out across the floodplain and kicks against its corrals.