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