poem by the river

The poem’s there, pulled by the flow, tossed by the boat;

in sunlight, spun in the circles of water;

 

here, on the bank, the bare branches of winter,

bowed to the water. It motors: like film, the repose

of passengers in profile, still, but this 1 girl

turned her head as an afterthought, saw, she thinks,

a glimpse of man stood tall. So. He thinks her lips

formed vowels, an O, for the real flesh of man, tore

 

off, with her teeth, something… Think: what it is

to be her, there, to see me falling away caught

in the trees like it’s really me that’s moving.

 

This will have to do – the circular wind

rolling the sky; the solitude I feel, hung still

like a gull reeled, art that blows even before

it stills. Here my thoughts are degenerate,

post-modernist, a white page of black lines,

the rudimentary outlines

of bare trees.

 

I envision the scene – now, but tonight also

& all my days, nailed like stars that light the walls

of a room I slept in 10 or 12 years ago.

 

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