The river left alone is approachable.
The gravel announces anyone,
Out of the woods to the guardrail,
Proceeding to the rising sound.
Objects seem to march today.
The orange markers bob, half-iced.
On a spot where children were safe,
An arm float is stranded on the rocks.
Blue in the water, blurry blue:
Piece of raft, pendant gone loose -
Otherwise, branches bush ground
Seem pasted to smudge the sky.
Smell of something too sweet:
Aunt Martha at Thanksgiving;
the smell of the laundry room,
sneaking in to steal matches.
Smell of something kept secret:
Mint on the breath, red-eyed man;
The powder sprinkled on vomit
Until the janitor can come clean.
In the froth along the shore
The bubbles make their own rapids,
The color white is turned inside out,
Leaving black residue in its path.
