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Writer's picturexwaxinglyricalx

River, Morning



River, Morning.


Glass out over the water,

glass washed to fuzz by a patient sea

has crept up river

to blanket the browned expanse,

nothing much under

save the jellies and the slime.


The river holds its secrets,

leaching out as warning signs:

don't swim; don't fish.


We've left our mark.


the birds

with their plectrum-pluck songs

weave the air into web

that catches only sound.


The night has sunk itself

to fizzed mist on the nearby windows,

The air, heavily wet

exudes a gluggy tranquillity

that slops against the skin.


The river looks old, old

with the barked pillars

that line its wending path.

It looks mysterious, and self-evident,

a wending ribbon hung

from the neck of moments

that pass through,

save the sunk-under

muck that confirms


we was 'ere.

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