I prefer to live near a river.
The sound of water is soothing
and the rustle of willow branches
blends with the slap of oars.
 
I prefer to live near a river.
Even if the water is gray as a dream,
and violent, translucent ripples beat
upon the river bed, the banks muddy
and slick. An animal that couldn’t bear the cold
lies splayed and shriveled among the frozen weeds.
 
I prefer to live near a river,
the city in readiness at my back
like a dusty set of springs. A car at the side of the house
to take me to work,
and at the window, air saturated with the smell of reeds
and straw, nests of birds with spindly legs.
 
I would prefer to live near a river
but there is no river in this city,
only a cold channel of ghosts under Old City stones
clattering at night. On the porch,
the river of night closes in on me  
with its lit windows
and the birds falling in their sleep
among the branches.