Pushed prow southerly into the golden wind:
hurt the eyes: gold pelted water: so looked less far away:
plovers huddling on the tide's last piece of shore:
Rise up in brightness: clap wings::
I told myself I'll go where eagles go: if to brimstone:
my wake a narrow river back
to its source in cedar: and when sunlight embers
the shore's soft fleece will be before me.
That twig of light, that branch, that
fork, that form.
Beyond that, a city. A horse drowning in
a river, and beyond that, a city. Wildfire, and beyond that,
a city. God, a slippery thing,
an eel, is twined
from our hands. That rainy hum is
the wharf, is the light that etches a bridge
between pronouns, the bottle
of amber formaldehyde, the infant
orangutan, the wing
of a gull stitched to its scapula. Here is a river
drowning in a horse’s dark eye. Devitalized, humming, rainy,
