In the case of Chillicothe
the city is contingent
on the river whose flow
is one of the four chambers
of the name. We leave

             Chillicothes at our heels.
             River homes ever

loading and unloading.
High banks to spare us deluge
nestle inside the word.
The principal city’s devastation
froths beneath the flood;

             the many-faced
             town destroyers allot

our city into severalty.
Maps scuttle east
detailing imaginary cities
and singing papery hymns
to call down the torrents.

             Chillicothes water
             from the Piqua, the Scioto,

sip from Paint Creek,
from the lost meanders:
Grand, Wanders, Slip and Red.
Chillicothe is engraved
on the tablet as first

             capital city. In laments
             it is the lost capital city

of our dominion;
the word city called
into existence, already existing
carved on the gates of the city,
carved under the city

             in the ash-charred lodges
             by the survivors of the flood.