Turgid Summer Rivers

Turgid summer rivers slop
against mudbanks exposing stones
that should remain anonymous.

We pose in a mess of knotweed
and watch the low current stutter
toward the Atlantic where yachts

host drunken orgies people
like us can’t afford to attend.
Why mention those self-erasures?

Do those reckless crews represent
something rash about America?
No, they’re only fat old men

who can pay sleek women to drink
themselves stupid and reveal
portions of deeply cringing selves.

We wouldn’t enjoy this drama
but would gaze at the blue vapors
on the horizon where the curve

of the planet becomes visible
and seabirds we can’t identify
cruise from the Arctic to shame us

with their grave, indelible purpose.
The rivers slobber in their beds
and remind us that summer drought

has ruined the local crops
for the third straight year, the rot
so personal we can’t discuss it.