Legacy
In his house on the river, the man
restores broken things, for instance
the boy who is a fish, who hoards
secrets in his pockets, who shimmers
in and out of himself while the river
foams, pulling like the mad moon
on the blood beneath her, flowing
fast of late, in a hurry to show her
entrained destructions as I mumble
my morning prayers, and what recipe
for restoration could there possibly be,
I wonder, gills straining on this shore,
which was once death, and may be
death again, as we drag our children
upstream to their battered heritage.