eerratic cumming poetry

for a virgin 3 Gorges

the river’s frigid, swollen mound of water intrigues me

bending lower i tickle its glassy surface with my swollen lips

something awakens, like springtime, and its steady roar

seems, momentarily, but not momentary, to be moved

deep within something simenon stirs and think maybe its earth

or maybe maggie and milly and molly and may, but it is earlier

than all that, still, further upstream where vernal showers birth

all that comes after 

even the peaceful sunlight falls gently

then like some wet wolf, it shakes itself, loosening the stones

which once moored it to eternity with imperceptible grace

lower still, i sense there is a placidity that bends like styrene

beneath the weight of knowing all that hangs beyond and above

somewhere in the middle, like a monument to present fleeting

it places in grey intervals some energy that cannot be bent how

possibly my own moaning and mysterious tears now sleeting

offer such friendship and adventure, such dreams in one place