Silt, and minerals.
The brittling walls
now float on the waning water,
we see our old town excavate itself -
and our younger wanderings,
their corrosions and pockmarks
grown obvious
with the hard chemistry of time.
The cold water recedes again, and gloats.
The mud cracks into a hopscotch.
A fireplace,
alone among the boulders,
unmoored verandas like loose teeth,
the boundary fences pared away.
The old roads are tightened,
like our skins, and fissured;
We can see how much we've shrunk,
and worn away.
Grown drier.
We touch the old bridge pylons
with the silence and disconnect
of museums.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem