By the River
He sits by the river and weeps
with the river, on the edge.
The flow has swollen in wired ripples
brushing by the mud-toasted sides.
His eyes are fixed on the wood side,
he must cross quickly or go back
to the torture of military feet
rushing on the street, banging doors,
forcing entry to privacy and quiet living.
The water is deep and his body is young-strong
as it pushes the wired ripples into long arcs.
He steps wet and panting, bare feet, marble white,
the wood-quiet beckons like frail fire smoke.
His bony feet plod mud-strokes in the grass,
as he glances at the river and smiles.
The wired ripples are straight.
He begins his quiet living, his privacy.
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