We peer down through rusted trestles
at the backwards river that does not remember
the tide's movements tugged by the moon, the taste of salt,
the refraction of light beneath the water's surface.
A different story here for me: a river village white with mould,
a damp house, silence, slowly growing old,
waiting for something new to happen
and clinging to what, having already happened,
slithers off into the brush without a sound.
Source text for Cento from Poetry Daily:
State and Wacker by Reginald Gibbons
None of this could be metaphor by Todd Davis
I know I've already said goodbye by Marianne Burton
Snake by Rachel Hadas
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