I. Bank Story
The river needed more room
and so it took a room
for itself along the water’s edge,
lolled porch-side in the downpour,
came up against the curved road
with its own proposal drowning out
theirs, until the river was a road
and the road a river
spreading through windows
like a liquid view, trees wavering
on the surface amid clouds
and, after all, the dilatory sun
drying the paper bedrooms and
the rusted kitchen until, finally,
the crooked house returned
and the river, again homeless,
was back in its old place between
the banks, washing itself on rocks.
A pond dies of too much life.
Of warmth, of light.
What shouldn’t kill it
does. Reflected trees
root and bloom; once real
they can’t just come and go.
Our arms and faces ride
the slime forest, its food
our effluence, our past.
We would prefer a world without us
to dip our bodies in.