These songs
Were loud last when you were fast
In my days like water in its bed:
Molten light, wood smoke banks, promise that
horizons stand, a far off blue-salt heaven.
I do not know if I owe thanks
For the ache of this recall,
rushing in tides
Across the cracked mud and dross of
Channels that have for years been dry
And which the next hot noon will drain.
I do not know, but I shall refrain
From turning.