Hydrated Harmonium.


Among a single metal basin,

The only moving thing

Was the drop of the water.


I was of absent mind,

Like a river

In which all life was overfished.


The water whirled in the plumbing’s pool.

This is a small drip from the catskills.


A soul and another

Are one.

A soul and another and a water pitcher

Are one.


I do not know which to prefer,

The beauty of reflections

Or the beauty of sight,

The water rippling

Or just after. 


Droplets filled the short pitcher

of plastic glass.

The spectrum of the water

Traversed it, to and fro.

My eye

Wrote in the spectrum

An imperceptible dimension.


The silent residents of this floor,

Why do you seek amber spirits?

Do you not see how the water

Floods around the feet

Of the friends about you?


I know technicolor lives,

And sharp, saturated visions;

But I know this as well:

That the water is of all

In what I know.


When the water grew over the gate,

It marked the edge

Of my one unmany pitcher.


At the sight of water

Flowing in the white light,

Even the lovers of saccharinity

Would drink, undoubtedly.


I rode under the neighborhood

In a bountiful train car.

Once, a cool drop graced me,

And in that I understood

The sourcing of connection 

Was water. 


The river is moving.

The water must be filling.


It was night all afternoon.

It was raining

And it was going to rain.

And my water rested

In its frigid case.

A vaguely-impressionist painting of a cup via Author