Howard Firkin
i.m. Jim Gardiner
The river Derci flows across our maps,
across the borders, splitting town and field—
its source and course forever unrevealed—
the only river in the world, perhaps.
Its humid delta is a marsh of change.
It overruns the gutters, floods the streets,
spills into gratings, bubbles up again
to pour from showerheads or fall as rain:
it seeps into the pores of all it meets
with one fast law: the world will re-arrange.
You think this is a journey you’re beginning.
You’ll navigate with oar or sail or pole,
until you tire of pointlessly Huck Finning
and wade ashore. And let the river roll.
across the borders, splitting town and field—
its source and course forever unrevealed—
the only river in the world, perhaps.
Its humid delta is a marsh of change.
It overruns the gutters, floods the streets,
spills into gratings, bubbles up again
to pour from showerheads or fall as rain:
it seeps into the pores of all it meets
with one fast law: the world will re-arrange.
You think this is a journey you’re beginning.
You’ll navigate with oar or sail or pole,
until you tire of pointlessly Huck Finning
and wade ashore. And let the river roll.
