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Chord

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Come the marrow-hours when he couldn't sleep,
the boy river-brinked and chorded.

Mud-bedded himself here in the root-mesh; bided.
Sieved our alluvial sounds—



Perseverating fiddler-crabs pockworking the pluff-mud;   


(perforated) home-bank gurgle and seethe;   


breathing burrow-holes, under-warrens,   
         (pitched) pent-forts, coverts;   


a rabbity heart-hammering amongst the canes;   


bleat of something;   


sleeping Mama grinding (something) with her jaw;


Daddy rut-graving gravel driving off;


the desolated train-trestle rust-buckling   —and falling;


an echo-tolling cast-iron skillet like a gong;


downrivering      gone      (gone)      gone      (gone);


Sylvia supper-calling her fish-camp fish with a bell;


putting her tea kettle! wren-calls on for the crying   
         marsh-wren orphans;


R.T. tale-telling down by Norton's Store   
         "Where every Story cauls a Grief";


Daddy   —nine-eyed, knee-walking—   aisle-weeping at the Bi-Lo;


Mama mash-sucking sour loquats in the shed;


ire-salts quartzifying in the dark;


the caustics;   


the fires;   


far Fever Creek revival-tents hymning and balming;


bees thrive-gilding the glade;


hand-strang bottle-oaks (and intricated yardwire-works)   
         clocking and panging;


Viaduct Forge & Foundry beating time;   


the bait-boys along the dock drum-dunting their buckets;   


vowel-howling over the water;   


the river;   


RIVER.
Source: Poetry (December 2007)

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This poem originally appeared in the December 2007 issue of Poetry magazine

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Chord

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