Long porch down
tilts to the black river
warm half-sea
with dead tree fronds
mangrove, cypress
old wood no nails
could ever pierce,
painted now by water
to keep hands
from ever trying.
After all we are
corrupted enough
to be mortal
for a blink,
then to succumb.
While the oil-colored
flow—
its volume—
has no possible need for
shelter
speech
or lifespan.
