river words.

Sitting at the river I feel at the nape of a sky
riddled with fire. The little boatman passing
issues a long luminous wave,
breaks up archipelagos of drifting leaves.
The water is dense with lucid cloud.
A jet's bright wake curves into that shelf,
scatters to beads. In a spider's jaws
a minute wing breaks. All around me
the sky burns darkening blues,
the buses in the distance half-lights, half-bodies,
propelling themselves under lucent spires,
clouds in their arched windows.
The spider seeks with blind limbs
at the black spindle. The damp path throbs with runners' feet.
Seeking for Utnapishtim with his white hands
the little oarsman levers himself into the bridge's dark mouth.