August 14/ 3:15/lc

Sailors under the stars: so far under: metal-swallowed, listing: men growing quiet: speech takes air.  

In the morning you go to the cliffs by the river:  shimmering: hammered pyrite, the breastplate of a myth: men on horseback, going over.

In the old cemetery you put corn seeds in the laps of stone women. You pass Nezval's grave, wave at his blue bust. But  the useless grandeur, row upon row of gold leaf, polished black stones roofing the dead, leaves your mouth parched. One grave, mounded, fresh-grassed, revives you .  

Shallow breaths. A barren sea. Men closing their eyes. Through the walls a sound of water rushing through pipes.  The cat shaking  in its sleep. Under the Arctic Circle, a huge tree revolving, Hel's cauldron full of men.

T says, "I can leave now,  I've finished The Song of The World." You crush beer cans. Say: "You are in trouble, you are drowning, you don't have to."

You climb over the iron railing, you work your way down to the 12th century, another level of river:

In Memphis years ago, the river swollen, moon cutting the black threads, the child swept away.  A shattered breastplate. You stumbling down Beale Street: red dress, black heels.

On the radio, an old Russian woman cries, "We want to know how come it is taking so long to save our lives?"  

Here is the ancient bridge. And below it the invisible river 800 years old. Here is the cliff where he went over. He and the horse.  They entered the water and swam away. Here is the myth found everywhere: the myth of conquering death.

You've heard that Russian sailors make 50 US dollars a month.

Here is the well. She dreamed once her face within: looking up.

Men at the bottom of the sea hear  footsteps.  On such a night Perseus stole the eye the three old wise women shared between them.  The cats stretch out under the white plate of the moon.  In the dark waters they drift into sleep. At one time we were fish. Our poems then sang of water, strong currents. Down there, pitchblack, you can't see the fin in front of your face.  

When you look up, the blue eye of the womb, wincing.  You fear there won't be rescue. The pride of men men die from. Under the stars: a dull knocking, men curled in the sails of their sheets: dream of birth.