How tired one is of the umber river Losing its green toward autumn. Is our real sum the sum Of what we have forgotten? Additions scrawled in margins Haste discarded at a truck stop. . . . Pages flap by the wetted sill, And the river writhes through rusty hills Like rotted moss, but liquiform. How tired and how feeble one has become Staring at shapes that will not stay; The river, as always, keeping low, Unregarded by animal or eye, A fluid whisper forced between rocks, A sum of nothings always the same-- If one could remember what went or came.