rivers seed the trees, too...

from the Powerhouse Museum Collection

between basket chum, bait and bitten

I dream of Jesus

at the end

of an ugly stick

on a carousel 

in America

on my knees

like a fly 

chancing skin

I lance the outside 

of another bend along

one of many rivers

here, there are

cities desperate

for a taste

of eternity

with their paper mills, 

candy stores, narrow streets 

and the cramped feel

of apartment life humidity

every neighborhood is

a brick and mortar fiefdom

laid out, waded through

the soft silt and trees 

with necessary signs, placed

between the pieces of silver

and what we eat 

of each other

just to get by

every version of humanity

vies, tries to live outside vines

I dream in boxed puzzle soul

I want to know each part

that goes into

molecular divinity

I see everything as

a cut-tongue clock

dividing one bank 

from the other

any middle ground 

is a wet timelessness 

and not meant

to be found

Love though

is the only ratio

high or low

counted on

for guiding maintenance

gravity lurks, shaping

every countenance

I have carried

tide pool to tide pool

from nursery to school

paycheck to guild trained monotony

I carried things that defined me

inside the flicker lights

of my painted picture show marquees

all lit up with my wanting to please

and yes, I still dare

to dream here

in America, walking

along its rivers

just to see how time works

with or without me

whether or not

wearing a watch

beyond scent

and sight

affixes permanence

to the poem

weather

carving rock

into sand

and loam

slow pours faces

in a delta fingered grasp

of quiet pocketed empty

the smooth and

beautiful, fertile dark

beneath the surface

waits to record

what it is we gain

when we let go of things

portage to portal

everything for Love

leaning immortal

everything else knows

we bottom feed

eventually, to go

from looking 

at our wants 

to hooking

what we need

EJR ©