And if
the red parade
upends you, offends
you, bends you and sends you
to a yard divided
by a river, here—
come stand awhile.
The water is not like us.
It does not raise its hand
and say, “I am the river and
the rain and the tears.
I am not the rock,
not the styrofoam cup.”
In the going of water,
everything belongs:
a plane’s shadow
crosses a black bear nosing
a float of dead
Hudson herrings.
The water
does not think ruin
when flat cola
pools at the bank.
White legs kick up,
and the rapids keep on,
don’t care—even
as the dam slows the water
brown, the river goes.
You could be like that.
If you cry for the walruses
spinning through air,
gone limp on cliff rocks,
you cry we did that.
You could drop a butt
in the shallows, say sorry
with dead fish eyes
and walk away.
See where that gets you.
Then come breathe with me
while the world splits
beyond repair.