At the East River
Words race by, like cars, like the river,
Like clouds, always changing their shape,
Their meaning, and what was clear
Only moments ago, is now cast over
With grey.
On the river, boats, bits of flotsam,
Impelled by churning blades, or just
Floating in the making tide. This
River is open to the sea, which piles
Its waters against the open mouth
Stemming the flow. Perhaps the river
Begrudges this imposition. All that
Would have been flushed away must now
Wait for the ebb.
On the banks people, about their business,
Not stopping, glancing only. What is
This river to them, what the sea?
No more attention for the water than
For the words.
In the Bible it says, (who says it?)
That the word was God, and the word
Was with God. Wash me, then,
In the river of words, and perhaps I shall be
Made clean again.