In the dry season,
the rivers make themselves known.
The turn is a theory of composition,
say the rivers; the soul grows muddy and quiet
on its banks. The soul is an isthmus,
the rivers say; the left hand doesn’t know
what the right one is doing.
Be that as it may, the drought persists.
The orchards fold themselves in,
the magazines showcase bright drought-tolerants.
Signs blame along the highways:
the government, lawns, a general lack of faith.
The veins flow like aqueducts;
along the hedgerows, ofrendas.
I've known compression. I’ve known hillsides
charred black like obsidian,
the houses gaping open like mouths,
the future percussive,
everything pent with observation.
My soul has grown wide with wonder.
My soul has grown mesh and scales.
SELECTIONS FROM OF RIVERS APPEAR IN SHR VOL 49.3