With dream-light on the Secret River,
by Ananta Madhavan
The grotto looms familiar,
As listened music in a private mood-scape.
Thrilled by wordy certitudes,
I chance on nouns I know but cannot name,
Nouns unborn as bodied vocables,
Whose trembling visages
Give goose-flesh to the altered eye,
As in a subliminal aquarium.
The will of waters drags me down
Deep into the grotto where,
Dream-light dimming, stealthy sounds
Harden into bragging echoes;
And I, a coward in their midst,
Hold their hands for fear and fear
The petrifaction of my ears.
The Secret River ended there.