I

Perhaps                   moved aside
& the luck
what there was       of it
went.

The land around the river plush with growth
but
heavy,
lazy,
the insects are indolent,
water-lilies flop sickly in the uncertain current,
the woods across from where we stand
are dark
up to their knees   the woods are dark
crankish                 full

in this hanging calm
there’s a sense of movement in there yet there is no movement

a fish flicks up in the corner of the eye

mine own and my father’s hearts beat
like drowned leather things
as the perch and the bream and the tench
mouth mud bubbles-up
gulp.

II

Conjecture fattens.
Talking only adds to the mess.
It’s good we have nothing to say to one another.
We motored on.
Came suddenly across a suddenly infamous house.
Horror lay inside as it fell. Bandaged with official tape.
Officials looking for the specifics of anger.
Of a confusion reduced to bullets.
A private indecipherable moment—out—into public hurt.

III

Rain positioned then pulled back.
The countryside seemed sick of itself.
The air quivered like teeth were coming through.
Parting everything without anything losing place.

IV

I would like to know the life
and the direction
of this itch
which assails
pore by pore
the source of this discomfort
this sorcery
pulling to ill.

I felt my clothes rotting upon me.
My knees knocked and I was revolted.
Shoes just a soup of feet.
Tongue of weeds.

A tongue which covers itself and eventually will not speak.

V

We called on relatives.
Like an old tune we talked among ourselves.
As the day evened out against the sky.
Fear stalked any silences we left for it.