and the river was brown because

I could see it- I could see the sun

above it, far above the dark trees and further

then, over the mountains I had

passed, and the red windless deserts-

I saw them

all, then they went down

to the brown river. it moved slowly,

like the cloth of my shirt used to like

the rain used to

above the far islands. and the river

was made of the cloth and the islands,

not the living rain but the leafy peppering

imprints of dead things, that

had been Things, and I had

touched and I had looked upon. and I

saw the brown river

as it forded between the far mountains,

and there was little light. my eyes

were wide and wide, they were

dry against the river, against

the brown river that was all Things, and I could not

close my eyes. I descended

down the banks to the edge of the brown river

and I saw my own desiccated eyes along the

sluggish deliberate

water