Cold sun, you are welcome
this Sunday morning on the wharf
the water winter calm yet choppy
colors alternating between
faded jade and pure azul
growing like a wheat field
out of the rich black night currents
air bright with a kiss of light
like in her eyes at this morning’s parting
Northbound train
materializing out of the fog
erased back into it
this is the time of watchmen
the time of switchmen
the time of drawbridge operators
patrolling the edges of the no-scape
the noise of interstate traffic echoing off downtown buildings
pushed up against the river, against erasure
against
living at the edge of visibility
hoping where a foot is planted is solid
and not one more dream of a new lunar year
1. (broken haiku)
Sunday before Christmas
high water threats
gone: the cold stays
2.
Bits of snow surfing
on the bitter winter winds
on a quiet wharf
3.
These bones echo
the river’s cutting currents
this body: a mud bank
