← v13n1, Spring 2014
Poetry · Volume 13, Number 1

Of Current

Every where is a ceaseless center—

the black SWAT uniforms

(a series of centers colliding)

hustling like magnets through spring snow,

into perpetuity. Behind each ripple,

blood driving in circles—behind

the blood, loud drums: cars

pounding by on an overpass

with me waist-deep underneath.

(No walleyes to show for the morning—

cold as it is, the turbid river, its pulse.)

A high bridge in higher wind:

all of meaning up there going by.