Hidden Poem

Soon the shadows of Time’s murder-cawing

crowmind will come repossess this hut

nestled between the pages of a rain-damp book.

I’ll be ousted from false nests where once I slept

carved in the ribs of heroic monuments, and sent

back to the wordless fields of the world.

Will you come find me then, where a foaming river meets the road,

and the sad bridge slumps under a sour sky?

There may be hidden poems printed on salmon scales

and on the polished stones God rolled out of Oregon caves

before humans came, poems for you and I to read,

to revive, to speak beneath the bridge inside the bridge

beside the river running under the river,

I mean the one moving toward eternity,

that glows subtly, and is fed by Memory’s springs.