In every clay bend of The Richardson
the flow is sown up
in green clouds of wet fabric.
The spirit of progress
chokes on the alchemy of insects.
There is the fuzz and buzz of misfits.
Spikes rush up
into the soft soles of heaven.
A rusting forty-four gallon drum
lies half-sunken in the scum.
Beneath the surface, a fitting conclusion
materializes and blooms
in the static water,
a breaking open of red nebulae,
a fomenting of brown thunderheads,
a leaking of things artesian.
The river has reached
its manifold ends,
giving way to a cache, hatch and brew,
to a stir of luminous chlorophyll.
We are moving away
from form.
We have landed our plan
to escape landscape,
metaphorically
leaping headlong
into the knee-deep freedom
of a looming swamp.
Both Peirce and Dewey
wrote of the woof and warp
of all thought –
and I suppose
we could mull and ponder
these symbols, too -
but the feeling here
is riverside,
and these words are the science
of those who love
to babble on,
after-hours,
like a chorus of frogs.
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