Wait

The base of the Chicago river
is pavement
ushered in whenever
to direct the flow of used things
south
where locks and sewage keep
waves from bleeding gently
into the larger body of a lake.
I’ve seen it flood
seen the police drag
its smooth stomach
in search for those swept
and held against it.

The house on the lake
is all I can remember.
I could breathe day into a ceiling
smitten with stared water marks
or talk about politics while drunk
at a four a.m bar.
From here to this
now is not too far
(what day is it?)
then I’m finished.

The river moved
truncated doubt.
A small segment
engorged
and fell out.
I take it apart
to pull it taut:
more next to longer more;
an inch first
then stone on stones
magnified and developed
like a photograph
of modernist architecture.