The river runs through this old town.
Like a silver flashing knife.
I know ever meandering inch of it.
I sleep in its weeds.
I drink its waters.
I purify my soul in its depths.
It's not a poem.
To say I love its waters.
Or the dirt path
that carries me for miles.
Or that I hear a symphony
from the train tracks,
as I sleep.
Or that god leaves his face
in the patch of stars
on an indigo canvas,
above the treetops.
There is always a swallow
from my hip flask
to warm my heart.
One day I will be old
Too old to live rough.
And I will speak sweetly
of the stars.
In the arms
of a caring soft woman.