The river’s shore is covered in filth: the normal

garbage, beer cans, wrappers, even a spare

tire, some lost shoes. And four pizza boxes,

left by a group I see leave, squatting square

on the rocks, symbols of some sin:

two people, four grease-brown boxes packed in

with more trash. What waste; the shore all

false fruit: Welch’s Snacks wrappers coat rocks

in their irrefutable blue, the sky

shies back in clouds, the air buzzes with flies.

Rimmed by this mess, my kids splash in the water.

There, my daughter sees a speck of blue

between two rocks: a real blue, browned

a bit by mud and time; but shining through it

is a strange and broken light. She scans the ground

and finds more: aquas, air-thin whites,

caramels, the sun moving in them like

a breath, and I hand-rinse her glass in the scented water.

Their grime comes off.