From a River Island

On streets as long as decades,

the houses of domestic exiles.

The windows brightly lit, people,

an anniversary car in the drive.

But walk five steps and you’ll

come to a room without walls,

a tree without bark,

its leaves a little more keen

to face the sun, the rain

to reach it, the water rising

quickly and staying high.

This is a river island, newly

formed, as yet unnamed, where

we catch fish with bare hands,

or sit on the floor and gypsy

style, though there’s no jubilee

to foretell, read each other’s palms.