January 19th: now,

january 19th: now,

what's left in the river

under the bridge is

a set of brick steps

steep and brief

the way, in green,

they peek out to be

seen.  winter’s sweep

of leaves bears them

back up to the road so

you’d know that once,

a long time ago it was

something necessary:


a mill maybe, or a bit
driving a wheel

pulling the water so
the fabric gets, even a little

made and baled and
bolted and owned

snaked down the rail-
road...

something in the way of stone

holds out alone over time

and beyond the purpose
a man set it for:

like all those broken,

once soaked in creosote

trestle posts thrust up out

of their sea saw gums

like broke teeth, the green

river moss--I see though

really smell the mossy rot.

the way this river on a

hot august day takes it

all into a smooth pooling bowl

down by the foot of

the old mill stairs (imagine

how many men walked
there, every boot a chisel) and throws

the smell up from the river

bed to the open sky.

and it just passes by, passes

by.  Yesterday I saw the snow

piled high on each tread

and tried to think:

a hundred years ago

the waterwheel, the mill

the men in bad weather,

how they bark and cough. 

how they watch the water. 

today its as benign

as the snow--as the sky

after a quick blizzard.  No-

where to go I suppose,

those old bricks.  Nothing

to hang on to or sit with

but the old eroding bank.

It’s a different sort

of grave I suppose, I mean

really informal.  the look

of a town that just got up

and moved out and let the rest

all drop, as though quitting

time was blasted and that’s
what mattered most.