by Ingrid Swanberg


with its burden of white blossoms

the black water turns

where you are written

forever in the silt,


it toils in its long drift

to nothing,

wearing your silence

across the dead hour


         you nowhere survived


the round moon burns

full in your absence,

silver, molten,

its coin refused


         no crossing here


in a little while I'll go down

to the ditch at the end of summer,

to the street lit

against anguish,


only let me rest here now

upon everything I've forgotten,

the black water below























Copyright © 2001 by Ingrid Swanberg

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Light and Dust Mobile Anthology of Poetry