take this moment beside the rapids,
where sunlight clips the old weir wall,
knowing itself to be only a faint replica
of sunlight, not the sort found in other
places, like Pisa or Nairobi, but without
undue dismay at its shortcomings and
invisibly corpsing, here and there, as
only the old style comics knew how,
with little, hiccupy giggles incorporated
seamlessly into their acts, which
is what this bit of sun does out of glee,
perhaps or relief to find itself; watery
— yes, ravaged — sure, but hitting the
black waters soundly and giddy with it.
Going nowhere fast.
