There is a burn­ing river run­ning
from this city into my heart. It
coils like a trum­pet past
of­fices full of white noise
and piles of rock like
old dreams. It stirs among
the build­ings as a home­less
woman writ­ing po­etry and
flick­ers along the hands of
the hot dog man.
If you pay at­ten­tion,
soon there will be
a burn­ing river run­ning
into your heart. 

And punk rock kids dance
in the light of the wa­ter,
hold­ing fast to flames
no one else will see.

Cleveland, 2005

3 thoughts on “There is a burn­ing river run­ning

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