John Sibley Williams
Breathings
— for Paul Celan
Over things
reign the eyes.
Over eyes,
language.
So, Paul,
the river you chose to drown in
does have a name.
Tourists continue to sail it, origin to imagined destination.
Lovers slip their hearts through the steel arms
of each other like some unshakable bridge.
There has been a time flowers papier-mâchéd its surface
and the city’s unaging shadow blackened the water
and, forg