- Minnehaha Creek
We were looking for something more powerful. Startle of starlight, sodium bulbs buzzing dim and steadyas a headache. And the stairs leading down, then down again: the old creek choked with, what—
same old pennies. And not even unfolded wishes. Late enough and in the wind the willow limbs touchedsteady moving water like what, like words, like this: We were looking for something new
to sing along to, the water humming against the stream -bed's stones, against the path of rocks too unstableto walk across but for one week, two out of the year. And what of those old matchbooks? The
scribbled notes we never meant to remember this long. Never meant to keep. We were walking toward where onewater fell upon another water, where grass turned to mud turned to the music of passing. How
little we can ever see, even with everything all nightlit, plain and laid out as a whisper. Remind me, we said,put our hands beneath that water, feeling for movement. Show me again, we said, one silence into another. [End Page 35]
Weston Cutter is from Minnesota and has had work published recently in Boxcar Poetry and Hawai'i Pacific Review and has work forthcoming in Controlled Burn and Southern Indiana Review.