~GREG KEELER~

UNDER THE RIVER'S RUSH

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For lack of sleep you carry this fine edge
honed by clocklight through the night then dulled
against dilemmas of the day.  Through the head
of a minnow you pop the hook's barb, a cold
but casual act when the mind is right, but here
the small mouth calls and calls without a voice.
The March wind stings up a stream of tears
then howls through the branches above.  Have you a choice
in these matters?  You'd as well ask what the fish knows
under the river's rush as ask how time
and weather can erode an aging heart.  Those
wide-eyed nights return you to the crime
of a passionate life where every effort seems
a violation of your jilted dreams.
 
 
 

© by Greg Keeler