— a Chorus of Old Folk

We have a mind for expert rage.

Our body melts like silt along
the riverbank.  In dreams, to Ma,
we speak like rivulets of rain.
To Pa, we say there's ice upon
the lake.  We see the petals from
the dogwood falling on the shoal,
the old dog rotting in the yard.
Our friends are gone.

                                       Our body melts
                                       like silt along the riverbank.

We fucked behind the church, and felt
the love of God, and saw the Lord
of Hosts and all his angel choir
in the clouds, we swore.  In the high
grass matted from our weight and sweat,
we knew the threat of chigger bites,
the fear of ticks.  Our name we can't
remember now.

                                       Our body melts
                                       like silt along the riverbank.

We are the victim of a flood.
We ask too much of the world, and
of ourselves, thinking time will fall
for us like a bird, like a drunk
in the street.  Our ear to the mud,
we hear the ripples seeping from
the creek.  We want to be the one
waters sing to.

                                       Our body melts
                                       like silt along the riverbank.