The Surface
It has a hole in it. Not only where I
concentrate.
The river still ribboning, twisting up,
into its re-
arrangements, chill enlightenments, tight-knotted
quickenings
and loosenings--whispered messages dissolving
the messengers--
the river still glinting-up into its handfuls, heapings.
glassy
forgettings under the river of
my attention--
and the river of my attention laying itself down--
bending,
reassembling--over the quick leaving-offs and windy
obstacles--
and the surface rippling under the wind's attention--
rippling over the accumulations, the slowed-down drifting
permanences
of the cold
bed.
I say iridescent and I look down.
The leaves very still as they are carried.
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