In threads of moss and potato vines
grimy sidewalks, chain-link fence,
a convincing dampness, on leaves,
on roots, under the eaves of houses.

Branches bar the black-oak sky.
Crows and grackles bear what
yellow light there is. Between
wrought iron gates, a slight wind.

Leave hope there where it belongs,
on the other side of the levee
where later it can be found easily,
its weight, bread crusts on water.

But here in the middle,
between the slow river
and cypress, stands a single blue
heron, barely moving. Watch.

Martha Serpas
from her book The Dirty Side of the Storm
W.W. Norton, 2007

used with permission of the poet

against a meander length has no recourse but patience, bent hard upon itself a river, river form,
sedimentation and erosion, a pattern replicating itself meanders, a tuft of smoke or a bluff, an
unfelt wind presses white tendrils into the air, breath caught, air also meandering, its erosion
another hypothesis, perfectly elliptical, a direction disguising itself as a digression, shallows
forming create a pressure or resistance that length has no answer to, copper tolerates delay, a
mutual duty and charity, the current nods in copper’s direction and continues its digression

Marthe Reed
from her book Tender Box: A Wunderkammer
Lavender Ink, 2007
Used by permission of the poet.