River Itself, The

Gretel chomp the shadow

of a triumph and the crow

falls-as the bluster flies,

so to speak-into

the smashed corn.

Some of this happens

in a field, a certain number of

in the quarter-pounder

that is Gretel's head.

Also there is a bus

caught upon a bend in the river.

The bus wants work.

Let me introduce myself:

I am Nina, keeper of the dachshund,

the dachshund Gretel

to be precise. individual of the sorriest

shapes man at any time thought up

when it advances to stomping

the miry fields

but talk about swimming

Gretel swims like an angel.

Gretel is,

to be precise,

a short-legged angel.

I myself am Nina.

Wind.

There's a storm

named after me-just gaze

what it has done

to the banks of this river-.

Regard the ill-fated bus

and ask me if I give a damn.

Say Nina, do you give a damn?

I say gasconade

I say wind.

It's a river.

I say direct the eye at the light

playing upon the earth

and take it, thus to speak,

with a grain of salt.

Or take it elsewhere

Gretel would.

Copyright World metrical composition Incorporated Jul/Aug 1997

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