Where the river abandons herself to the creek
and the mudbank is cratered with crabclaws
waits the old man.
He doesn't know his years
but his ears are a sonic gift
catching the tonal variations of tides
seemingly for eons
evolving with the mangrove map
into a flawless tracker
of how far the moon would recline
for ***** to be holed out
and what shoreline the water would touch
before the shrimps starlight driven
make a beeline for the net.
I encountered him once
in the absurdity of a time
when I was high
and he lowly crouching
was making art by the creek.
Who was the poet
I could never tell.
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 6:28 AM UTC
Where the river abandons herself to the creek
and the mudbank is cratered with crabclaws
waits the old man.
He doesn't know his years
but his ears are a sonic gift
catching the tonal variations of tides
seemingly for eons
evolving with the mangrove map
into a flawless tracker
of how far the moon would recline
for ***** to be holed out
and what shoreline the water would touch
before the shrimps starlight driven
make a beeline for the net.
I encountered him once
in the absurdity of a time
when I was high
and he lowly crouching
was making art by the creek.
Who was the poet
I could never tell.
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