a visit at the river

.





our feet dangle into a silver-slip of minnow

we belong here
with the living things; the blue
heron
the wild carrot

light air clangs; metal to rock





in this dream there are
no black flies, no standard issue belt, no urine soaked chair to place at the road

there is only this great-green space, these familiar waters

and our mirrored hands postured behind us

because i know i am dreaming;
i think in questions only the dead could answer

in a language only this side of the truth would speak

but before the asking
before the deconstruction or burst of light


my mother's eyes shift
change to shapeless wooden things

and her mouth turns a river
filled blackest-black where words are forgotten

and syllables displaced
in a sloppy muck of rock and silt


















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