Night ferry crosses still river
Southern Mississippi.
Last leaves of lights from the passing shore
flicker on forearms rested on the railing,
and the dim cries of birds
and the fragrance of unknown trees
enfold the dreamer like a counterpane
of beneficence and peace
and is-at-home.
Such manners appeal redemption,
as a child evades execration,
the well-read searcher the woe
that from such wisps obtain.
No story provisions tribulation.
... drift to remembrance
that obscure object of desire
and the impression that bohemian village life
was not what it seemed;
the fabulous raspberries
were a temporal conveyance;
the waltz was streaked with shades of sweat,
and the place where you are,
breathing in the mossy and swampy smell of the
riverbank,
is
not
in your element.
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