Here by the mouth of the river
the water has teeth, or a tongue
mellow in summer and swelled
with the tides. You can still
see your reflection in it, a wash-
bowl filling steady with the sound
of a current whose source is out of
reach. We wade with our pant hems
rolled and our skirts hitched high:
we can count the shoes floating by
like boats; refrigerators, microwaves,
children in plastic laundry baskets.
The sky is a crater the color of wet
ash. The sky is a mouth, all mouth.