Hard

River



The rivers now a bric-a-brac display
of Styrofoam resigned to island floe.
The tires, once fitting transport, sink below
their heyday pulling freight at union pay.

I walk on water here. The virtues not
my own. To garbage, credits rightly due.
Hopping from log to fridge to muddy spot,
I skip the bridge. The girders look askew.

I used to set my watch to ripples. Now
I levitate like Jesus, overdue
as currents, thick with hubris, disallow
the notion of a river running through.

Given this stuck conveyor caked in slime,
the question seems both timely and sublime:
With hearts and rivers bogged in goop and grime,
how thentodaywould Conrad tell the time?

Poem appears in Serpentrope by Norman Ball