#16

This river, the floss of the world,
pulls empty cans down its pulse,
message-bottles across its surface
to strangers.

If I drink from its murky water,
I will speak through my chest
in code and in truth, someone's
long forgotten dream of a river.

If I lie about a lie,
then I'm telling the truth.

In the marsh-catch miles from here,
a magnet hole of words,
of sight from back home,
the milky leg from a blanket.

Unintentional send-off,
goodbye note written in invisible ink--
if I whisper the truth so no one hears,
then it is a lie.