The River of Washuma

The river is curled asleep,

Like a snake in hibernating thought,

Scales all a-glisten

With liquid purls and swells,

With black tarn underbelly.

Smooth, below that surface wave

The dirt and sand are unmoved

In their murky stillness,

Unwoken by the footpad caress

Of tiny mites, of tiny men,

Little bugs alive in the snake.

The snake is shivering

To itself like Buddha,

Shivering the song of rock

And tucked away the thought

Of more food, as fingers

Smooth away the wrinkles of

A baby’s blue-sky blanket.

Snuggled with itself

A yawning abyss of blood

And fish, and bird, and bug,

A maw of soul is exposed

Because I sit at the shore

Bare to elemental lovers…

The wind croons moon and moonlight

To the trees like frothy sprays

Of snow, withering full flower petals

With wisdom. Black as the sheer cut

Of night’s unholy dress,

Your lips feed the frost, the fuel

You are for reptile desires,

Awash with the stardust of grief.

The snake is not hungry now.