Washing faces and forearms in the river.
Washing our feet, calves, the bodily heat.
Washing out the snot from our noses.
Cleaning the root of the tongue.
Tearing dog roses full of redness.
Handfuls of petals on the surface.
Letting words go with the flower heads,
letting the words cleanse the root of
the tongue. River of words, undulating
heavy mirror. The magnetic coldness,
stones slippery with angel hair weed
dancing along down in the cold.
From The Rialto No 66 (Spring 2009)