A Poem for Daphne, No. 70
If she were not away looking for a home
With a Victorian dome and colored glass windows,
We would drive to a river whose bottom
Is covered with geometry's drowned answers.
We would climb the shadows that fell like rain
From the sky, walk on the river water.
The bodies, we stepped out of to discard
And cover our bones with words, would return.
No one ever comes to this river;
No one, not even us, but this river
Never holds its breath, but without pause,
breathes,
Breathes kingfishers, swallows, blue teal.
I sit in a room, living like a hermit
Whose only pleasure is speaking in tongues.
Duane Locke
Posted over on FZQ
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