Sluice

It probes among sedges

and into windrows of duckweed.

So much goes by.

Leaves, nymphs, the simple

grains in their cold drift.

It waits.

When it is full

it strides off down the canyon on

casual, graded trestles.

It smells of pitch.

What runs through its mind

isa wayward

clarity,

open and above board.

PRIME

Towers look across

to other

towers and to tall stores.

They look to the mountains

which are their help.

The sky comes down

weightlessly