Spider-faced in the river light,
that old brown river is a glistening
vein. No shape
out among
the popping lights, the engine
of a conch speaks to the ships
out to sea.
A
hundred landlocked
days, the river like a letter,
rolls up to the disintegrating
house, a brass key in its mouth.
The magician looks out
through the glass walls, the silence
that is the last song of water.
Glass hands to pry the fissure,
the whole trap falls like a man.
Mister Miracle—not what
the audience really wanted;
a puddle that seeps through
every floor, down to the bones
in the ground, thrown up
when the ground cracks too.
The meat of the nut, the hammer
& the anvil of sleep
where the children sway, a forest
of leaning kelp. The river folds
into itself, the oily waves being
a tired song.
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