The River Facing the Sea
October 10, 1950,
Thalassa pleas nostalgically:
"Here I am, where you are to run!
"This, each of my rivers has done!"
But if to her the river goes,
if to her fresh water flows,
what will become, what will be left?
of a river complicit in its own theft?
The sea is not the river's home;
never to be aqua seafoam.
She will snap and chew, tear and spit,
dying the waters, a sunrise lit.
It moans, beckons, Thalassa calls:
"Here you can sleep, Passaic falls!
"Here you will grow, bearing my seeds."
But the river arrives, and bleeds.
Fresh to brackish and this to salt
a man scoops, drinks, and from it balks.
Turning and looking toward the town
he sees the falls in a white gown.
The Passaic runs, moves but stays,
the Passaic running, moving but staying,
the Passaic ran, moved but stayed,
the Passaic runs, moves, and stays.
gbs 9-26-06
