You were a ship in a narrow creek.
Ferns, sprouting nests, crawfish,
sulphurous rocks split open, a scent
of hand-crushed bay leaves…
A horse rode over the waterfall
and started the revolution.
Flowing to the public beach,
the blood could hardly be felt
on the backs of swimmers.
The pier’s timbers marched on into it.
Salt preserved the black ration, mocked artillery
in crackle of its sublimation.
If those are dreams, consider these soporifics:
old roots guard the springs of the creek,
sun stirs the muddy pond, leaves calm in the current
between leaky boats,
with a dead bee. The poor child
on whom the boathouse falls grows up as the sleeper
in a black train on its way to the beach
and the dance hall.
Wined fish from the sea. Cordial jowl
of pelican. The creek like a torn nylon cropped
by the tide: while American music grinds the carousel,
horses of revolution.