the river at whitebrook
the winding wye
curls into my senses
feliniously
there's no such word
but no such river
merely exists
where this river slivers
between the dream
and the time i camped by it
has left a furmark
on my inward skin
it takes only a wet thought
for hunchbacked woods
and a drift of mist
lifting off the silver water
to sidle onto the retina
where the lazy mind's at ease
(nectar's the drinks all round)
this is my river
that went underground
before priapus found its tongue
and every flowing girl
ran her hair down
between those wise green banks
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