Tangling The River

explaining the benefit of this river, determined
voice became a matter for concern. the point
asserts that a poem can be floated on water, most
neatly a river. no discussion furthers this point,
none possible under this sun and duration:

I have seen the trees at all times, I declared,
felt the colour and so what: I am human.
you are massed as a fact, was the reply.
we are noble or ordinary, it all fits the map.
we can discuss, I was told.
I am the hero of this, my viewpoint on this grid.
you are not heavenly, I heard said. I came across
wrong, admittedly.
can you define the nature of sunspots? I asked as
casually as mist.
pragmatism was launched necessarily, marched back
the emphatic response.
my poetry, sang I, the well of malarkey.
can't hear you? sang back the interlocutor, lost
in fuddle.
my Mexico, I said, then pondered the ultimate
glass of beer.
you were a supermarket, I was informed.
the sport of kings, I sipped.
I used coffee on my work, said the voice to me. is
disappointment placed just so?
I have to wonder some things, and just live with
others.
you are the benefit of the time in hand, came
sporty remark.
I believe I like that sound, said I, warming.
the sun has been terrific lately, great in the
photosynthetic process. the rain has been wet as
ever, maybe more so.
do I make a big deal out of sand in my shoe? I
asked, just to be present.
your feet are there, answered the answerer, in
time to what goes when it is in time to go. 
do you see how I could be confused? I insisted on
painting.
yes, yes yes...
so I tell you, Reader, that this conversation went
on, tho not as shown. instead, everything was
coloured with probable cause, and a relationship
to the words that happen to be handy. I mean,
something happens, and it gives. this is how I
vary the story. next time, expect something else,
or nothing at all. I am made into this river at a
moment's notice. it's a matter of practice.