The river keeps the color Of everything it carries. There are places men stop noticing Because they've seen them every day. Water in the gutter, Iron in the stone, Hands that never quite come clean. I know what belongs here. I know what a body weighs. A frightened man invents a shape When the dark won't give him one. But something had been measured Before I knew to look. It waited at the mouth of the alley Long before I turned. You can explain the water. You can explain the boot. You can explain the man Who says he saw nothing. But explanation isn't the same As knowing what you saw. Related. Not the same. Something wrong in the usual way. Related. Not the same. You can name the stone And still not name the thing. He stood where the water told us. He stopped where the water changed. A reasonable man sees footprints. A careful man sees where they end. The wall had nothing worth seeing Until there was something there. I filed the mark like any other, Not knowing what the ledger held. I put each fact in its drawer. I kept the drawers in order. Then Crowe looked at the empty space And made it matter. I could follow every answer. I could make each answer stand. Still the shape behind the answers Wouldn't leave my hands. Related. Not the same. Something wrong in the usual way. Related. Not the same. The words are his, But now I hear them in my voice. Don't ask what it means. Ask where it waits. Pressure marks it. Not a blade. The wound remembers force. The surface says one story. The depth says something else. Two hands. A weapon. A man. Choose two and leave the third behind. I learned that certainty Can have a missing piece And still look whole beneath a lamp. Godley asked me what it was. I heard myself answer him. Not because I understood. Because the words were waiting. Related. Not the same. I said them like they were mine. THE WALL REMAINS. THE WATER REMAINS. THE MARK MOVES. THE EXPLANATION BREAKS. Related. (Not the same.) Related. (Not the same.) What belongs to the place Was never in the making. What belongs to the wound Was never in the hand. Related. Not the same. Now the words won't leave my head. Related. Not the same. Every road back to the river Feels like something I've already read. Related. Not the same. The fog is paying attention. Related. Not the same. It's December. That's the reason. The cold explains the rest. The lamp moves across the ledger. The river keeps its place. Crowe walks half a step ahead. The fog moves with his shape. I keep walking. I keep walking. I keep walking south.
