Riverside

Having been disillusioned by all but the dead
in this endless quest to be fed and astonished,
one returns to the meaning of longing,
and the property of the stone. No amount
of milk or warmth will keep the child from harm.
Knowledge of this is the length of water
eating away at stone. To swallow life is to carry
the dead, as one would roll one's eyes at a friend.
I have pawned off the hummingmoth, and out
on the sidewalk, no stars. I have consumed
Margaret's blight, and skipped to my rue
off to the tomb. Of all the birds, I choose the loon.
The empty and the crowded head. Awkward talkers
in a crowd. The motley lovers of the dead.