A summer dusk. The river is all green
Glass just now. Mist likes to gather here.
It’s smoke and mirrors. We are in between
The water and the street, and we are near

Enough to know that both are murmuring
And both are moving. Sodium lamps switch on,
Illuminate a manuscript on string
Theory, ropes of likeness hung upon

The doubling surface. Meanwhile, dusk dissolves
The incandescent disc that was the sun
And then, as if replacing it, involves
A bladelike crescent moon. And anyone

Could understand these undercurrents, how
It’s colder, stiller at the bottom. Could
See movement in confinement, could allow
Like to be the same as same. All good:

The river’s not specific water. You’re
Still you, whatever happens to us. And
This is the bridge beneath which I am sure
You told me all was water. Understand?

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 27 Number 5, on page 34
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