As/Is







8.05.2006


Outside the River House

I am southern in such a way:
blue salt courses
through my veins, enters
the house leaning
on the river- beats

against the windows
calling someone
home.

My memory
is a torn green apple
caught in the tree-bones
like a stubborn thorn
or a throbbing nerve.

It lives and so
do I before it falls,
outside the river house,

in the swollen,
sweet-grass.