This Young Beaver

not yet exhausted
busts the work of her dam
in the schizophrenic reservoir

where plashing white water’s
incommunicative noise
accompanies each redirection

as she rolls the shoddy planks
paranoid in a pattern of panic
employing yellow teeth

and her waffle paddle tail
to loosen wet warped wood
none of which is lost on me

who knows what it is to form
a poem and want to shred it
when the music isn’t there