the river
the river
you spoke of the river
yet the thunderlight drove it out
neither was there a nest of gentle ants,
that scattered before the scream
the grey clouds
how furious, bursting
from the pallid sky
in war there might have been a speckled oval egg
yet she was cloaked in fog
on precipice
the white crests deafen the piccolo orchestra
that surfed the dry split twig
and under wave emphesema
glutters a monotone green
through the floating neon fish