I have revised myself out of all understanding.
My soul is the soul of a bridge burner,
surrounded by love and sometimes still adrift.
I save my true groanings for the gatormen who live in the river.
This mask of me lasts only as long as she does,
and my heart also.
Each day is a battle against a weariness I cannot yet name.
Cast ye these cares into the river. That’s where all the garbage goes.
Yesterday a man made a submarine out of a discarded icebox. I hear tales of him on Channel 13, in the banter of tug boat captains.