the rivers of it, abridged

New York City skyline at night


Fall 2007



Andrew Glaze


It being brave, and the thing to do,
I gave her my soul.
She found the offer interesting,
wore it a while like a ring.
But having gone so far,
and it getting dull,
I must bare her my throat.
What a wonderful game!
Her blood raced, my blood raced,
(you understand--just in the thought).

Having got to be that much of a wag,
I could see the double-dog dares
would go on and multiply like mice.
Which they did. So I had to choose.
I opted—well—for bliss.
There’s nothing wrong with that, I guess;
it’s one of the gambles you take.
But the dice rolled—and rolled—
and they came out like this.


Trolling the banks of themselves,
the swirling rivers, the thump of the creel,
they seek a logical colloquy
of fishes and loaves
playing the words that leap and shine.
Enduring each overturn of the stat,
with no talisman against brutishness and power,
they’ll flutter and scatter
as the civil world presses agreeably on
in its ramping, splashing, murderous casual way
and they’ll be lost, swallowed by the savagery of fact.
For a while the enemy’s mindless claptrap will reign,
the daily hatred, the swearing to lies,
and they’ll be wasted in the garbage like us all,
forced to mouth the blameless blame.
But someday, the tumults worn out and accomplished,
the cycles will inch about another click,
and out from under the hills and streams of lies,
they’’ll venture to come and cast once more
away into the waters, and hook the shining words,
hang them to dry like minnows in the sun.


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