Tim Bleecker

Dead River, Dead River, let’s make a review
of all the trash you absorb from us,
the burdens we sink in you.

In the scum of an eddy 
a baby carriage squats,
one wheel just straining 
above the slime.
The gleam of bottles
interrupts your mud,
and snagged in your weeds
are papers covered with crime.

Dead River, Dead River, inexorable flow,
where is your source, where will you--
Oh never mind, we know where you go.

Dead River, old river, submerging our sins,
absorbing our dreams,
disasters and wins.
Butts and wrappers clutter your bank;
though your voice murmurs gently, 
your odor is rank.

Dead River, foul river,
what more do you need?
Your ripe, putrid current
sweeps us all out to sea.
Someday you’ll carry me.