by Gideon Burton
The river swells, the muddy banks release
themselves in shelves, the moonlight clots and drops
along the coldly boiling surface. Creased
with oily smoke the sagging daylight fogs
with yellowing, with clenched and sour hours.
And now we speak, we whisper prayers, blank
as this renewed reproach against our powers,
the rain inside of rain along the shanks
of animals whose hooves have found that small,
that soft, that place that cannot further twist.
And now the water, damned, begins to fall,
the boulders bound, the currents grind to grist.
Whatever we had left of spite and shame,
and this we know and this we cannot name.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - zphaze