Between the fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth hours of the morning

Watch for the imposing river to wind south and spool into me.

I, the grandchild, a great grandchild of construction waste taking up space.

But I did not wind up down here to make you wiser,

I wound up down here, ponding, growing wider

Wide, wide, wider

Spilling out beneath prisms, lawn fountain mechanisms, and in the blooming shade

Beneath the divisions where stale, glistening,

cul-de-sac minds sit heartless with age.

Beneath the deep lake, the place of Miss Kate, screaming obscenities at the state.

But I did not wind up down here to make you quieter,

I wound up down here, ponding, growing wider

Wide, wide, wider

Let’s stop and imagine one small thing, for your consideration:

What if I was some golden, spirit child sent for your generation?

If I am, if I’m not, I’ll sit digging my thumbs in the southern pavement

And burrow in, ancient rivers, like spiders competing

Grown old, but grown wider.

Wide, wide, wider