ALONG THE RIVERBANK
.
I stand someplace and watch
People without weight transported
From this bank to that
Only once are they carried across
The water is clear, finely textured yet viscous
The boatman’s oar sends up no spray
Although the passengers are spirits perhaps
All spirit seems to have left them long ago
As if caught in a deep sleep
Their mouths hang slightly open
They need no water from the river of forgetfulness
Probably their memories are already long gone
The old women look like my mother
So I probably resemble them too
Standing with mouth slightly agape
A close resemblance like one dream to another
As I gaze on them, I begin to wonder
From which side of the river I watch . . .
Meanwhile, a dragonfly perched on the helm measures
The weight of the vast afternoon on its thin wings
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