Of all the places Poseidon touches
by current, by surf, by rhythm of tide,
none so clearly he holds as the river called Hudson
from its mountainous sources to its bay, deep and wide.
Named Hudson by English, North by the Dutch,
and “drowned” by scholars eschewing gestalt,
Poseidon is wed to this river’s great spirit
as known by the far-flung presence of salt.
No other river so thoroughly knows
the touch of the ocean upon its twin shores.
With a flick of his trident in the deep of the sea
Poseidon bids, “Retreat now from me.”
River and ocean, one and the same
unlike other unions that are beheld.
No subsuming this spirit, absorbing its name —
rather a union, as gods choose to meld.