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Dead River I have watched the delta dam up with stones and silt Making many eye-shaped pools of motionless acidic water The edges foam and spit like a distempered child Corners of his lips turning soft and moss-covered hissing Filling the air with the stench of dying matter and liquid salt His crown strangled with thistle weed so dense- confused There could be no place it leads But in circles Feeling nothing Reacting little If all is quiet You can hear at the heart the swamp stagnate Being deadly still to easily embrace Only needing to be there- Be done Caring about nothing Sharing with no one |
Additional Notes:
On one of my hiking journeys in Ithaca’s Six Mile Creek I crossed a large dead pool of water with no fresh water coming in or out. The stench could be detected many yards down the path. So I took out my pencil and started writing. Two ideas arose, the obvious one is the sense of neglect, the other “be there, be done” hints at the philosophy of the uncarved block in reference to places one needs to be in which to begin again. The old adage “you’ll have to hit bottom, before you can ride to the top.” This latter theme admittedly might not be read from this, though It crossed my mind at the time of composing.
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