Merrimack snaking through sighs of craggy
floe and log, whispering that spring may shake blue
hair from out the hillocks’ slow skull of winter.
Yet of the clawing
freeze and water streaming by banks and grasping
trash and rusted truck parts that sink though mud and
poison blood and bone, the black river flows like
nothing will matter,
happen, change, or even has ever been or
ever been not. Time may exist or it’s some
cracked Edenic covenant, human built, and
just a machine that’s
building machines, making all estuaries —
where our salted flesh seeks salinity, some
delta of eternity — lost,
trackless as divinity.
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