This water streams between the banks
of a subterranean track.
It cannot carry pulp or foam
nor shrug them off its back.
I've waded in the muddy Nile
and walked with Eliot's Thames,
dreamt by carp-bellied Singapore,
delivering gurgling names.
Sure, this foul trickle does not grow
from glaciers or from glades,
but from the fractured concrete cast
still it descends from the same sky
as the Ganges and the Styx,
elementary the water
a rat, fat with rats, sips.