River

standing there on an avenue
of waters floating in the air—
above the hum of underground streams,
a sallow lake opposite
the house on the hill—
the plan of it
exacting
cautious sympathy within the frame
of my camera lens

if only I had a wide angle to challenge
overwhelming inadequacy, size defying
definition on paper;
the hot fluid of Ceauscescu’s brain
seeping across one
long rectangle in an absurd vision

I imagine them returning
from New York or Leningrad—
being kissed at the airport by schoolgirls
bribed with oranges and a fast ride
in sleek, black Dacias—
damning themselves through the streets
behind darkened glass,
an empty cottage feeling
like acid in their guts,
translating through nights
of fever
into broken spines and long,
narrow ditches down the avenue;
a Parisian boulevard
crumbling in reverse, and a house
big enough to block out the rest

at the river’s ending,
where it slips beneath the hot road to Sofia,
brown boys dive recklessly
into opaque, brown water

—JOHN DEGEN

(Originally published Christmas, 1998.)