the river thinks in fish. what was it then
that sergeant henley first wrested
from it, the eyes yellow and locked, the barbels
two firehooks around the ash-grey mouth
that made even the dogs whimper?

the rapids and their raving
grammar that we followed toward the spring.
the haze-mountains in the distance,
the long grass prairie and now and then
a native who, amused,
gazes over at us and then
vanishes into the woods: all that we enter
into adam's old map, name
species and deeds. fever in the muscles
and for weeks the diet of roots
and faith in god. under the shirt the ticks
like pins on the skin: thus
the wilderness takes our measurements.

strange feeling: to be
the frontier, the point at which it ends and
begins. by the fire at night our blood circulates
in clouds of mosquitoes over us,
while with hard fishbones
we sew together the pelts, shoes
for our destination and blankets for the dreams.
ahead the untouched, behind us the
ecstatic settlers, their charter
of fences and gates; behind us
the covered wagons of the traders,
the big cities, filled with din and future.

Translated into English by Tim Lilburn