William Heyen – Ⅵ

 Direction 

 

 

You’re now almost halfway across the river, listener,

on one of Mr. Tanimoto’s trips. Around you,

some are in shock, some are groaning, one man is vomiting,

a woman’s face is seared blind, the boat

refracts forward as if by force of grunts & cries. Over there,

the park exists as in a dream: once reached,

it might retract what happened, couldn’t it not,

is happening now. Birds seem to suffer

from the same illusion, flying in your same direction toward green.

You guess the huge annual Hiroshima garden show

is canceled. You grimace at yourself, your esophagas & sternum

seem reversed, something is happening in the forehead

of your cave. The ferryman pushes on, thrust

by thrust of his pole into the still-liquid water

moving east, or is it west, or both, or somewhere neither.