rattled in the brezze of meaning

deep in the green
rush, some thing
corresponds with the river
its long hand note, is
sent by the notion,
of movement
of the bare foot touching the
untouched forever, and there
knowing the persistence
of the grower
to keep on under
the asphalt cover, the
street dwindles and
recedes and is hoped back
by the community
of hands
it is black then gray
then blue under the spring rain
and the men call out under
its weight, for rest or
abandonment, and i walk
over this labor, loved
and hated, and i move
toward the
river, the silent completion
that leafs through each page
of being-
and dumb as snake ribs
caresses the walls of
its haunted sheathing, and
suggests a crawl
as if it is evolving
toward a more recognizable
casing, or is it
my thumb, and fingers
crafting digits to grasp-
in delusion, a understanding.