There’s this river underground
the birds sing of it as though
it were a gem as though a gem
were something they had interest in
though perhaps my translators
but no don’t let me blame them
this river at times packed
with grey slush moving fast
enough that the fish wish they
had eyes but here on the lost
real estate development the
philosophers have left
with the fabled food trucks
that won’t return
the sky moves so fast a fragrance like marshmallow
what I thought a purple crystal dissolved in morning dew
evidence of the old civilization if the light is just right on the microscope slide
meters into the crevasse wrongly assumed it was scree
fields like maple syrup over a fresh argument
a language I’ve yet to master sneaks into my notes
returning to a previous marker an acrid smell sunken ground
stuck inside the tent autocorrecting hail
rivers like a laughing bandage to forget the insults of rock
the way forward often loops around in sharpened midday rain
what I wrote on a rock ran away
this mountain like melted gnomes who to name it after
a quiet spot by the river eaten by these mineral teeth
the silicavore’s thought projections jostle the rover’s gyro
a fine web like cotton candy spreads toward the sea by evening
I think there are dogs in the clouds
a dry brown leaf and voices in the wind almost enough like home
before you drain the river smoke this limited-edition emotion
an oligarch by any other name relaxes by the riverbank in an elaborate disguise
floating down the river you have to start somewhere
the river’s flow and rush Whitman’s grass
letting go it swims to the deepest part of the river
other animals 