by James Keller


Often conversation continues
with only our footsteps
on wet empty streets
that dry quickly between showers,
walking on, at home in solitude

with the good fortune of good health
while other internal pains
flow through us without
dragging us down in muddy depths
of melancholy, where restless fish

breed, coming up to pout for air,
spreading airless, silent disdain
with hooks of despair
fatal in brooks and swift rivers
where unhappy women drown their sorrows.