Robert Duncan weaves and warps the Navarro
river in his Passages
“the dream in which all things are living”
with a wind projecting gusts
from the Pacific, west, rippling whole planes
in little wave-forms on a surface
flowing upriver, a miniature
sea-storm at the shallow edge.
From reddish-brown through brown
pale bark, dead leaf, grey green
bush, and waxy California laurel
to the deep and dark green redwood
full color-circle back to its bark,
“It’s hid in its showing forth.”
The few people downstream
feel invaded by me so invade me
seemingly just to show
that they can. This is
a lovely spot, but won’t
be coming
anytime back soon.
I want a river empty
of human voices not
from dislike but from surfeit
of quotidian murmurings
wanting, not wanting,
caring, not caring, sudden
anger over sounds,
splash of selfish whims and
squiggles in the sand.
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