The River's Green Mouth
by Michael Mirolla


At the river’s green mouth
the white picket fence ends.
Swamp-engorged, mosquitoes
lift past an un-wheeled bus
where the ghost child still stares out.
Windows like trances to hold
glass shards from shattered frames.

At the river’s green mouth
machines bleed, rust orange
in their decay. Joints folded,
they dance against
the earth’s deathly grip.
Gaunt monks at prayer. Sinking.

At the river’s green mouth
the thirsty reeds caress
each other, tender whistles
sighing you home. A gate
swings open. Unhinged.

At the river’s green mouth
you pass yourself again. Unknown.
Footprints meeting before
they fill with water.

At the river’s green mouth
the sunlight pauses. Grim ashes
smeared across its face.

At the river’s green mouth
an Ashoka tree slips its roots. Rises

sudden to the sky.






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