The Source

  



The river's an audience,
the soil's a stage and I'm just grateful
for somewhere to stand.

The barge is a memory,
ripples are wakes in the ocean
of time held in transparent hands.

The noises of traffic are simply
existing, on borders between
all the lucid, young dreams,

and wide rules of paper are
merely the maple, in martyrdom
of a deciduous ream.