River Street

Such a task
Cutting down dead pipe,
Using sweep compound on the floor
Moving hills of trash
I wish I could put on the heat of all time
So the birds could be let loose.

Beyond the doors, a deserted industrial factory
Timbers rotting.

On rainy days, water drips
In the winter pools of ice
On the floor, the trash and broken furnaces, and scattered bricks
Are frozen and immovable.

I am just a slim door away from this
with my kerosine heater
chugging away against the cold

I am installing a sink
I will move in my wheel
I will build a kiln
And then I will confront this mystery with the open question

What will I make here?

I am not making it
It is making it.
I am letting it use me, to do its work.
That is all.

I am filled with a deep desire to write poems.