These scrawls and smudges
on the black chalkboard water
are signs of things invisible:
sunken sandbars, beer cans,
rocks, tree trunks whose roots
a crumbling bank let go of,
fin-work of cutthroat and brown,
and wind, of course—wind
that blurs, combs, dimples,
sweeping simplicities away.
Still, the current makes
one clear argument, woven
of volume and degree of slope;
the surface effects—all style:
allusions, footnotes, marginalia.
“What the river says,” the cunning
poet wrote, “that is what I say.”
Seems innocent, doesn’t it.