regulate me, whispered the river tributary
to its dumb and rushing banks–
and they obliged in kind, all the more willing
to hold water where water goes. 

The wooded bottom diverged its course
long ago–its pain, the occasional flooding
water that tossed its sediments, made dams,
tracked an occasional moored-up Ford
deep into the orange wood, its abandoned corpse
filled with all kind of junk we’d find there:

the glass bottles of Ol Grandad        sun bleached
beer cans               tattered seats, foam exposed–
springcoil heart ripped open.