It has a hole in it.   Not only where I

                                 concentrate.
								 
The river still ribboning, twisting up, 

                           into its re-
						   
arrangements, chill enlightenments, tight-knotted

			             quickenings
						 
and loosenings--whispered messages dissolving

			   the messengers--
			   
the river still glinting-up into its handfuls, heapings.

			              glassy
						  
forgettings under the river of

my attention--

and the river of my attention laying itself down--

			                  bending,
							  
reassembling--over the quick leaving-offs and windy

				  obstacles--
				  
and the surface rippling under the wind's attention--

rippling over the accumulations, the slowed-down drifting

                                      permanences
									  
of the cold

bed.

I say iridescent and I look down.

The leaves very still as they are carried.