Lethe-ward

The light, the river, the ice on it in sheets.
The failing light, the setting sun.  The moment
Of no return.  The streetlight changing.  The cars
Moving slowly.  The drag of the river. The green river.
Past the old granite sheds.  Past.
This is the prayer I try to tell.
There is no god to listen to me; I, the daughter, I the vice.
No one has use for the river in winter when ice floes crash
The banks, the water a turgid presence like hunger or wound.
This is the moment I cannot turn back from.  My mother,
The traffic, the river, the cars.  I am captured by the present
Forever bound to the moment by the river, the unending
Green river.  A river without sound, without music.