no, the wind does not come calling
and the suspicious absence of haunting train whistles
must be noted. still:
this river, great world’s wound,
is connected to everything.
where water goes
so goes that in me
that still flies
and that which remains finds
endless worlds stacked upon each
here at the edge
here at the land between the bridges
where the clouds, the currents, the grackle,
the heron, bring me all the news I need.
The storm last night is tied in my memory to imminent death.
This heat, the day after, is a waiting.
My deathbed waiting is this great wound of the world
and I am ill-prepared to bribe the tug captain
that will bear home
the spirit of my friend.
this day, the end of a relationship
like in all gothic southern fixtures
starboard mayflies herald the heat
but here on the wharf we know
everything floats even dry land
except for them that swim
and take the currents where they go
