my sanity is borne on rivers
Tuesday, December 16th, 2008My sanity is borne on rivers,
meandering;
yet rivers know their course,
an end predestined,
not assured,
or not predestined but assured;
and yet in cities they are still, the same.
Four rivers, then; four that define
the cities where I loved them; for I know
I may be smoothed and worn, but I am coarse
like the stubble that scratches where I kiss,
and wakes the baby.
I
The first is Graytown, call it Dixon, home: the Rock; my namesake,
where I grew, a tribute to the old frontier, a ferry town, downtown
a treasure trove where library, and toys, and park were found—
the ground divided by the trains, the viaducts,
cut stone, old money, and the work gone elsewhere:
the trains cut past the river, and the trestle
(standing still, between downriver and the dam,
and parallel two bridges that connect
the bustle and the hassle of downtown)
inspired dreams and horror, like the quarry
every year some swam through, dived and drowned.
The dam, too, drew some fools to glory and disaster,
in canoes; I fished with dad, or restlessly
skipped stones to drive the fish away, impatient
for their biting, though mosquitoes
found dinner soon enough; and later, fireworks,
photography on riverbanks, a steady hand
required and found at last, though better film
had left a better picture; and poems, sitting, walking,
thinking with the churn
whose soundless noise, the sheer pent foaming force,
seemed symbol of itself enough for me; seen steaming from the pool
where last I battled asthma, living low
like catfish on the bottom.