What Became Bank

Slapy lets the level fall so Prague keeps a current. Orlík already empty. September wears the winter mark.

Last week's floor is bank. Mussels sit in that air— hundreds of thousands, painter's among them— the ones that filtered while the cover held.

Hands lift more than thirty thousand deeper again. The water will fall further. The bank will lengthen.

Upstream of the city, evening finds them still holding the shape the river left.