The name was convenient, but the river
Was real, as rivers are, as far as rivers go.
Why not camp out there, out past
The western edge of the kettle lakes
And the eastern woods, where grasses
Gathered, cut by barbed wire, under
A half-faced moon? Henry Threadgill Zooid
Would be the right backing track
For the sound the water made as it crossed
That threshold hemming it in, say, "In
For a Penny, In for a Pound," if you know
What that would sound like. Chortling,
Almost. Ruminative as the cattle around it,
Like the gurgle of a broken heart trying still
To pump without drawing too much attention
But failing because it's bleeding self pity and
It stains the sunset red, such a bloody mess.
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