I feel like I owe you an apology
 for madness, not the other thing
but you hate, I know, my thing with blame—
   fathoming want under root.
I don’t want to bring you there, how I was
 inside the green swarm above the falling tide
how the other of me saw it. If I can’t repair
  if the river ever gave her back
or craft beautiful what he saw, who I was,
 is still a murder of singing
then—Ok, then. Let each vessel, green
 life along the riverbed
gravity, be a song offered to the river
     & I is frightening.