The river sits down at the end of the road
thinking of — what is it thinking of? — it’s
anybody’s guess: who knows what
a river knows, what it sees, its many-
dropleted congregation, jostling always
to get the best seat for the show
on the river-bank, the river-mouth,
then the rush headlong into the wideness
of the ocean, only to pack up and up and
up into the blue sun’s sky to do it again.
This is the heaven we can only dream about:
losing oneself in the great white cathedrals
that dome themselves out of nothing in
the sky, the swell of the crowd pressing
in ecstasy, ready to fall, to begin again
on a leaf, nowhere in particular. All water
is the same water, all the time finding
old friends that were waiting to be seen.