The sun presses gold leaf onto the black water, 

and I still within a complex ecosystem. I crave 

America like a battered child longs for affection, 

and sometimes I get it. A white feather glides 

up the river. The moon rotates in outer space, 

just visible. What has been made available to 

us through the five senses and the stars? 

The bird’s cry is distant. The cold makes no sound.

I could walk into that river, allow the ice to fortify my constitution.

I can ease myself out of apprehension. 

The bare tree resembles the nervous system. 

The lines on my thumb smile up at me. 

The flotsam appears, like confidence. 

My aim is total nothingness: 

my joy, my boat, my harbor. Depeche Mode 

was right about words. They’ve ruined my life, 

but I love them anyway.