At Black River


All day
  its dark, slick bronze soaks
    in a mossy place,
      its teeth,
a multitude
  set
    for the comedy
      that never comes--

its tail
  knobbed and shiny,
    and with a heavyweight's punch
      packed around the bone.

In beautiful Florida
  he is king
    of his own part
      of the black river,

and from his nap
  he will wake
    into the warm darkness
      to boom, and thrust forward,

paralyzing
  the swift, thin-waisted fish,
    or the bird
      in its frilled, white gown,

that has dipped down
  from the heaven of leaves
    one last time,
      to drink.

Don't think
  I'm not afraid.
    There is such an unleashing
      of horror.

Then I remember:
  death comes before
    the rolling away
      of the stone.