My river is not a river. From the bridge I cross every day the thing I see is not water. It fills me with air or energy. It makes me feel happy or poetic but it’s not water. It’s rail lines stretching out side by side that go so far in both directions that I can only guess where they end.
My river is not a river. Where I live there is no water. The only water in my life runs through my hands when I do the dishes or on my face when every day at eight o’clock I find myself under the shower.
My river is not a river. It’s rails that they have placed here without thinking them through. It’s rails that grew here while they turned fields covered with slums into a massive concrete slab.
My river is not a river. It’s rails that fill me with air or energy, that make me feel happy or poetic.