the river has receded
but still I am
drowningmy hair has come undone
combs on the river bottom
nosed by sequined fishround and smooth
as a river-stone
I am fallingtrout jump
into the glistening
foaming airI comb my hair out
in the morning
twist it up along the curveof the back of my
skull
among the stonesat the bottom
of the river perhaps
I can holdmy breath long enough
to float
to the top
POEMS
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MORE OF SB's POEMS
@WATERMARK |A Poet's Notebook
- Disclaimer
Please do not assume that I am the speaker/ subject of my poems.
In these times of creative nonfiction and fictionalized memoirs, I think of the poem itself as true fiction: it is most likely not factual, but it must be true.
It is likely to be -- it is best if it is -- a truth I did not know before I wrote, and may not understand even then.
A poem is my way of discovering (dis-covering) what I feel; sometimes, what I think -- but it is not necessarily biographical.
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