Sent Under

What’s been sent under crops up
in heavy rain—buried trash, lost things
reminders of our disaster
our passage into the interior
scarce provisions, melancholy
and the bad results thereof
the guides refused but we
in two canoes five hundred miles–
holy, magnetic, green.

the series ends

the series ends we ride off into
another life where none of the
scenes of our formerness or our
former faultfulness remain we
still have our little knives and
all our little dreams with their
fences and sluices we have
carnival rides and erudition so
the same same same in the
end end end O but this new life
after all that tar and pilfering
those vendettas and innuendoes
whence money now that other
life is done now that we’ve been
freed from our a cappellas and
contracts in what green room do
we now wait to tell our captive tale?