Knee deep in mud. For centuries, we have stood where the bog waters suck.
In the grasp of the inanimate,
there are no straight lines. A sack race is good for a laugh.
And like the Lord's own trumpets, funnels multiply in the muck.
Once again, darling, yours is a resinous, intimate whisper.
Once again, I'll bring you pelts and sprigs of heather.
But it's all a whim of the estuary, spidering thin borders.
By dawn, it looks like a golden wand. At night, a wooden recorder.
The dragonflies and branches emanate a velvet current
into skies and loam. This isn't a road. It's a crossroad.
In the dead water, a bulging stretcher,
you will find no bridge, no cross, no forking path, no star.
Only a stone that looks like a cloud (both resemble
countless other points of the universe so familiar as to make one tremble).
Only the dislocation of a landscape, sagging like a deflated ball.
Only a hole in the ground, or the lack of a hole.
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