The waters don't haunt me like the Big Blackfoot did Maclean.
Words don't linger, undiscovered, under ancient rocks
dreading their rise to the surface - dreading
what will be lost when they face their half-lives, once exposed
to oxygen and scrutiny.
Instead,
ancient odes and tribal chants offer up
symbolic truths
in the form of skeletons dancing
....-silver by moon
....-gold by sun
and echo in a language too old to understand.
Hope rises like fish,
all heaving, liquid gasps and flailing arms
and stretches toward a sandy bank where young men stand
drinks in hand and watch it go
....south
....to gulf
....to ocean
.........out.
......Mythologies and cautionary tales bounce
......from the tips of their brains to the sharp cliffs
......of their tongues,
......about undertows, currents, lost things,
......and tall bridges.
Or maybe go north
to a town smaller
that feels more like home.
They are not anglers or contemplative men,
except they know that hope
-dashed itself on rocks,
splashed in their wintery eyes -
left them for a warm place
down
......river,
while they flopped on their backs,
caught their breath,
and purged their lungs
of a millennium's worth of wishes.
No four count rhythm can save their souls.
I am not haunted by wading canyon waters;
I am wistful by dangerous ones.
Words don't linger, undiscovered, under ancient rocks
dreading their rise to the surface - dreading
what will be lost when they face their half-lives, once exposed
to oxygen and scrutiny.
Instead,
ancient odes and tribal chants offer up
symbolic truths
in the form of skeletons dancing
....-silver by moon
....-gold by sun
and echo in a language too old to understand.
Hope rises like fish,
all heaving, liquid gasps and flailing arms
and stretches toward a sandy bank where young men stand
drinks in hand and watch it go
....south
....to gulf
....to ocean
.........out.
......Mythologies and cautionary tales bounce
......from the tips of their brains to the sharp cliffs
......of their tongues,
......about undertows, currents, lost things,
......and tall bridges.
Or maybe go north
to a town smaller
that feels more like home.
They are not anglers or contemplative men,
except they know that hope
-dashed itself on rocks,
splashed in their wintery eyes -
left them for a warm place
down
......river,
while they flopped on their backs,
caught their breath,
and purged their lungs
of a millennium's worth of wishes.
No four count rhythm can save their souls.
I am not haunted by wading canyon waters;
I am wistful by dangerous ones.
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