Ducks and Drakes
Private and confidential, the river allegedly flows. I sit on it
almost attractively, on assignment from a shade of blue
no one has seen since the Goldilocks administration.
A perfect lonesomeness acts as its own attorney here,
where scraps of advice via nocturnal barns bend the wind
back to something of its former glory. You blow it when you see it . . .
And now you don't, erased from the face of the afternoon
as soon as you laughed through it. That's what the sun means
when it dances around the question, "Is a memory's vacancy
roomy enough when the future's full?" Still, some brazen sighs
moisten the graves they inhabit. I've heard their low-slung odes,
listened with ears of melting stone, and nodded off.