(for Burt, remembering)
The river that wends
its way through the dark
forest of the mind is not a way from or to
but a forever fluttering falling
ribbon of no
consequence—its beginning its
end as (un)knowable as
g-d. What would we make of
the trees that line
its banks, shadow
its course
from the unclouded
sun? Who is it that floats neither
coming or going in a simple
birch bark canoe? This
is no marked year, no specificity
of time. We can never look away.
