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Kill
The
Dutch say it
And
for the length of sound
You
sense a shimmering shape
of water
With
wandering waterbugs
Dry-backed
beneath the willows. |
Pool
House
Pool.
Bridge
Pool.
Maple
Pool
and
Currans
Pool
and
Acid
and
All
the
rest
Up
and
down
the
Beaverkill
–
Meandering
like
a
melody
Through
the
night
air:
misty.
We
throw
the
line
with
Hope
in
every
cast,
And
leaders
spun
so
fine:
A
measure
of
our
sporting
purity.
Beaverkill:
we sing of you in winter
silence,
And salute the end of season.
A
crystal vein in grass
and pine,
Lost in tapered whirlpools,
From brushing limbs: A sign.
In
winter you are silence
Sliding beneath a coat of white,
Hinting of a summer's offering,
Beyond the world of night.
When
snow is gone and ice remains
Bleeding in the sun...
I think with some disquietude
Of stumps bequeathed to worms.
I
walk upon the flows of
ice,
Above the frosted rocks
Where, set in whiteness, stones of red
Are traced around
A curving neck of land.
The
first thaw comes and destroys
Your loveliness, making you huge and
Pregnant in the warm-cool April sun:
A breeding orgy with that first heat of spring,
Obscene with bloated brown
Water ripping at the tender shoots
That seek to blossom on your reclining banks.
Suddenly
the greedy drinking is
over and
Like a woman laughing in
Great relief,
You are green water, like gin,
With each stone shining
And the white straws that garnish
Your sand will once again be
Reflected in your
Slow and turning glass.
Embrace
me, Beaverkill,
With cool breezes that burn my face
While gold willow combs grow
Bright along your shore,
Bristling before my eyes in a
Dancing view of wind...shooting across
Your wet complexion in delicate
Arrow trails: a moving wake of water
That some may think a racing fish.
Then
I will cast a length of
silk upon you
As if by magic to your virgin, eager surface
And it will drift with your music
Down into the waiting window of a trout.
His mouth: a white interior room with
A cynical smile scalloped on its edge.
Now
it opens. .. slowly, with
violent body jerking
Into an eternal circle, wrenching the fly
Below the surface: selfish, cruel,
Neutral.
Then
the hook pricks his hardened
jaw
And a silver beam of pain thrusts the body
Of the trout upward, out of the water
As if to melt the strand of glass that
Holds him fast, seeking a sun's ray and
Racing down.
To find a sudden solace on the bottom of the stream.
All
madness overwhelms the
fish and it
Races back and forth across the pool
Carrying the silver vial now
Like a throbbing toothache.
Then, just as suddenly, with great exhaustion,
He turns on his side and rests from the
Spasm: like a finished lover, drifting alone
On space and time.
I
take all this from you,
River,
And cannot give it back.
It is all I can do to be in you.
I can take with my eyes, my ears, my hands:
I clutch eagerly at your coolness,
Your sweet odors, and know
That you give kindly, speaking to me with
Lapping phrase, with tender drops of spray,
Saying over and over again:
I
am the river, the source.
I am the river, I am the source.
Refine me over centuries.
Spread me to the seas beyond
In all forgetfulness.
Blended.
Lost.
Beyond
recovery. |
Except
by God
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