A walk begins (alone)

as I make note
of the number
of breaths
I make
on my way
down
the
staircase,
the variation
from thud,
to flip,
to flop,
to squeak,
to the violent crack,
the marriage--
for an instant--
of my bone to antique mahogany
that was only used because
its installation pre-dated Wal-Mart.

Carpet now: no rhythm kept; no sound,
though the only sound is truly mine
as i eye the ornate door like a cancer patient
eyes influenza. An Escape--

I think Ford makes those ugly cars--
guzzles gasoline,
The humming of its engine
Evocative of wind-induced waves and I wonder
How many dollars it wastes on wannabe propulsion
That takes it nowhere

As I walk nowhere.
Not even the person that isn't in the driver's seat--
No doubt walking alone somewhere--waves.

There are but invisble waves in the river
At this hour, obscuring the truth as to
Whether the intruding greys that rape the sunlight
Are a consequence of weather or
The passage of time, of chance or of destiny,
Chosen or ordarined. It is too calm for bad weather;
The only weather that could follow a calm
This violent is a catastrophe.

The passage of time is evident in the cobblestone,
The bricks rendered smooth as if tumbled in the river
I'm coming closer to the river
My house on the banks of the river
My existence ten feet above
The ground ten feet west of the banks of the river

Nothing could live in the river, of course,
That's constant as the percussion of my step.
Nothing is constant; this library
Will disappear with greater haste than freedom;

I thus circumvent its grand windows and make
What could very well be my last
Willful change of plans, a turn right before

Where cobblestone ends
And grass-punctuated mud begins;
A hornet invites me to feel pain. I decline
In altitude. There are fresh foot prints,
cologne trails in the air.
Over there is a boat:
Beached.

A bucket of soapy water
Whose surface exists rippled
From a sponge dropped in and sunken sits
On the banks of the river. I sit
On the banks of the river.