Delaware River

the capes
are rising higher off the springboard
and lamps thrown into the river
from far off
are lit. the bridge
is old. it has seen many things but
with the dumb woof of
reinforcedsteel it has forgotten.
or really
remembered there
were things

to be forgotten,

it is pretty this
time of year when
the waters are not
icy or filled with licking salt about
the corners of his mouth

a husband
fishes. with
no pole
but his open hands
all in the soft mud
at the river bottom
the old trees
predicting with startling inaccuracy that at last this
night the
stars will shrug a cold
back on the
bruised escarpments that the constants of rushing water will
explode into the manic silence of
early fall

and the
husband catches
a trout but
he puts it
back because it
is the same silver
as his ring
which he has thrown across the river. it had
stained his hand but not the silver ring no not
really. he is fishing. he does not like it nor

does he
like the water
against his bare legs. the bridge makes a pleasant shadow. but in the evening a lot of rivers grow sharp and oh the pressure of history
is nitrogen rising in his blood.

he does
not catch any more
fish that night. the trees watch the peppered Sky