One word is enough

The river holds

much mud and

we’re working for it

as the throat catches

Swallows

under the bridge

the unswallowable dark

(an incomplete subject)

(feathers glassed)

an aha so blah

There’re not enough words left

although it sates and sates

(big winds lift small seeds)

like the biota in me:

a dredged (rescheduled) creek

right nearby and native

flora uncountable

Sweeping the dog shit

of one-thousand dogs

off the sidewalk now gone

to river to see the sun

Makes everyone think everything

is just right:

                                                                                                             unconscious manifold mud

while the summer flies (flies!)

are blackish white with weather

I am a tree in water

under water as “drains to bay”

goes unheeded

City drain closed to all

but possums and brown apples

---------

Can I look through

this slanting night without getting dizzy?

Ignore the invite to the river

by the river?

back going around mud

around across stick

sticks and stumbling

mountains of hills

near home filled with deaf silence

late with thinning

rocks (relativity speaking) like air

in your baby bird shadow

I leave, shoes tightened

Wind warm as my hand

accepting a calf’s breath

(the enough word)

I feel (you are) near to some old realization

that just died, some soft stab’s inner shining

June gloom of sense

though dissolution not occurring

And maybe a man on the periphery, dried

mud on his mismatched boots, laces stiff

like creosote cross beams

supporting the trestle

train a-coming

the former enough words

days of the week tied to mud