The River Night
All the old words are new words
aligned in a shaky way
all over the climbing sheet,
shanks of curtains, the crispy cords.
Now they wind me up
and work free in planet light,
the risky tintinnabulation
of vine, and tree, and thorn.
The night is always green.
It’s a flaky field of beat folly
and fishy streams,
jittery laps of unfinished work.
It’s the hour of lust and rain.
What do you do with lust and rain?
Drink and wander and shiver.
Hey, sometimes it’s all river.
Some thing laughs its dream.
Some thing swims above.
Some thing sheds its smoke.
Some thing runs.
I’m so afraid that I want to joke
in an hour of ardent seconds.
New words rain like love,
earth shaking its light, its weather.
I unfasten a thousand sheets.
I risk the river.
I find something patient
among wandering exhaust and sap.
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