Aug 212011
 
Whatever rivers endeavor
To mean in their molten going,

Erudite in their silvery swiftness,
Knowing in their golden slowness,

They mean without meaning,
Without needing to mean meaning.

Whatever rivers mean they elide,
Wetly content to be wily river 

Once more, flowing without following,
Going after what went before,

Flow after flow like honey going
Gold in its golden slowness,

Its prow of now humped high, humped high,
And goldenest too at its going down,

Golden in its flowing going.
Faultless the flotsam upon it.

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