That Wouldn't Be

That Wouldn’t Be

because coffee cold after ten
is a tepid image,
a drowsy thought planted in the granite
of mathematics, assembly lines,
unions and mass rapid transit,
all blue print and schematic stored
on spreadsheets

and because this path leads
back to the river, the lonely heron
foraging the last snow drifts for
summer landmarks with a decayed memory,
grass the colour of old hay,
trees rigid with rising blood

and in this accelerating wind,
all thought is whipped into shreds,
the bones of vision exposed,
the sun truth serum, my gait faltering,
arrival at a poem — well, that wouldn’t be