open, bleeding into the river.
The streetlamps are still on.
Two swans float up in unhurried hunger
for bread I do not have.
Twenty-two huddle farther up the river
asleep, their necks wrung
into their wings. A lull
of white feathers on which water does not stick.
Their river is always dry.
It is land.
My river runs by me
reflecting runners, dreams and detritus.
A life of moorings and unmoorings,
a mirror of semi-truths –
where the light of a dog-pissed streetlamp
looks like flecks of real gold.
I stand still, very still. Watching
my body ripple and quiver like a wildling.
A swan passes by and I shatter into pixels.
But I can wait, I have nowhere I need to be.
The waters will calm, I will patch together again.