Here is a river lost to nature,
running in its dead canal
across the county, scumming its banks.
I lean out over the water,
poking my head through rusty lace
of the old rail bridge and blowing
my spits out into its swill.
A slow wind ushers the homely smell
around my head; I breathe its fumes.
In whirlpool eddies, odds
of garbage and poisoned fish
inherit the last red hour of light.
A ripe moon cobbles the waters.
Mounds of culm burn softly into night.