Then I went along the Amur River,

chert in my elbow, a grasshopper ligature bucking the end

of my tongue.

blackened yellow spiders, boomboxing forms, big as zucchini, small dogs,

Theron Fleury on a kicked in night, squinting along;

behind my calves, ants hatted with three wings.

I went ahead on a Levallois knee.

I portaged the summa painting of religion, 4X6 glass,

through it September 2, 2005, afternoon, rain prinking down in Loss

Creek, alder leaves in stopped, oil-coloured water, stones with winter

like a boat tied up in them.

Amur River, molting eye, saying itself into

the mouth of reindeer moss, moths and bats lariating in ash.

I was walking, hiding the mind's kissable sword.

I was thinking of al-Ghazali, so what, blood pressing the nail,

I was walking.

I let Pico della Mirandola slow his limbs humming

through my hair, why not, I knew where the elands bunched,

how they went through the rain crevice.

I knew their smoke and what to say.

Right along the Amur River, hoveling in the sword.

And then from the beach I slid into the glacier-eyed

fish.