I used to sit by the river in my hometown
and watch the water pass through
an old TV, cascade over a fax machine:
things pushed from the bridge above.
Their screens had gone green with algae.
An emerald duck drifted by,
punctuating the current. I watched
the bridge divide the water
and let it come together like a flock
of birds. If I knew what was to happen,
could I have let the river work
through me? The future hooked
to the tail feather of the mallard,
just past the bridge, out of sight.