Afternoons

So when I start a
poem like this
in the dying embers of Saturday
afternoons among the
static powder clouds of
the skyline straight-line
concrete earth, I think
of the heart of the river
that flows and beats not so far away,
I think of its end for one
land and its prophesy for
the beginning of the new,
I think of dipping my hand in-
to its great immemorial current
that follows gods finger carved
to the sea, and before the lights go
out I am somehow content in
all my sadness and the moon shines
over eastern lands.