The River Now

Hardly a ghost left to talk with. The slavs moved on or changed their names to something green. Greeks gave up old dishes and slid into repose. Runs of salmon thin and thin until a ripple in October might mean carp. Huge mills bang and smoke. Day hangs thick with commerce and my favorite home, always overgrown with roses, collapsed like moral advice. Tugs still pound against the outtide pour but real, running on some definite fuel. I can’t dream anything, not some lovely woman murdered in a shack, not saw mills going broke, not even wild wine and a landslide though I knew both well. The blood still begs direction home. This river points the way north to the blood, the blue stars certain in their swing, their fix. I pass the backwash where the cattails still lean north, familiar grebes pop up, the windchill is the same. And it comes back with the odor of the river, some way I know the lonely sources of despair break down from too much love. No matter how this water fragments in the reeds, it rejoins the river and the bright bay north receives it all, new salmon on their way to open ocean, the easy tub returned.