Poetry

Spring 2008

We walk along the river saying so little
it's as if nothing's happening. Loss
lays dark blots between the trees, shadows

text and anti-text, his wife, his other
woman, the man I loved it would've ruined me
to marry. Indoors little buildings of cloth

and wire stand around waiting to be realized.
Gold light zings off the water, swarms
of silent jeweled insects flung onto panels

of green velvet fixed here and there
to rough wood walls. His houses all
have odd small windows and brim

with light. Today it trembles the water
like memory, and here's the mark: on a post
above our heads a stain records how high

the water rose when it swept in
and would have drowned his son
had something not awakened him.