​Always a River

River, always a river, rock-slip, side-step,
the dark current breathing in the splintered
glimmer, always. The wide mouth agape

in the sunlight, the waterline and rising tide.
Looks high. You’ve read of sharks as far north
as Saint Louis. Still it is a river, always a river.

A place to swim and fish and boat and be baptized.
Something to walk into, runaway from. Minnows
scatter and gather. You swim through it, listening

to fish, the breath of the thing, the rushing water
passing over you, the heat of the sun, the boy on
the shore - a reflection of yourself - singing to your son.



Say the War is On

say the war is on
(the war is on)
say the market crashed
and thought of depression
(the war is on)
you spoke to me in Spanish
but I didn’t understand you
(the war is on)
then the war started
(the war is on)
and now we’re in the middle of it
(the war is on)
and then it ended and we
were going to leave
(the war is on)
back home things are the same
another quiet kind of war
(the war is on)
then there is an explosion
and we have to go back
(the war is on)
there is no time to think it
through, pack it up, ship it out



At the Wedding

everyone with their hands
up dancing on the brilliant

hardwood floor then you
in the middle of the sparkling

crowd, champagne fizzling
out of glasses and the howling

to music you can’t stand or
dance to, and the women

and the movement and the
ecstasy, the jumping up

and out and tireless shouting of
lyrics out loud with the dancers.

good thing your wife can dance,
hold on to her, follow her lead

END 2.2.20