Wrist Deep

As water made its way through the lower subway grates
the man thought of rivers, thought of things coming together,
thought of V. Deltas. Floodplains. These are the things nature
is made up of; he, once again, thought of nature. Remembered.

Over trash, scraps of the Village Voice, memories flowed back.
Water trickled over like violin strings hit just right, vibrated
with a hidden violence, like arms of trees broken down
in a veracious wind, hairs of a bow twisted off while playing.

He thought of rivers, wading in them, waist deep, or diving in
to find smaller fish, crawdads (yes, the have those in California),
finding walking sticks and walking in the low water for hours,
letting the cool water disgust him, and beautify him. He wondered,

What becomes of the water? Where does it end up? He wanted
to follow it into the ocean, through algae fields, golden, green,
soft as cassimere in winter, and slippery too, slipping like he
as he pulled tight the scarf round his neck in the hard shape of a V.