Way up by the river bend at its very tip
is called Beau Rivage, beautiful shore.
Here you can see across the river to its
farthest bank and down to where the bridge
crosses and up across to where the factory pushes
smoke twelve to fourteen hours a day.
To get here I had to cross the mouths of caves, go
through tangles of crooked, thorny vines, release myself
to the rhythm of the limestone cliffs and flats
The river’s edge keeps me to the rock.
I know the pull of the current, the water thrusting
around a rock, curling to the banks in a whirling pool
where I lose my senses. I keep to the rocks
whose contours suckle my bare feet, whose sandy flats
give me my wit, whose ancient sea is my core.