It's a full lemon moon & I'm stuck in your
craw, an otter caught in your lock & dam. Lock-jawed,
bridging back & forth between your valleyhands. Years
later & I still struggle to be ambidextrous. A good little
drummer boy. My hands aren't as wide as yours & aren't
you a slippery one indeed? I've learned well the where-
withal. I know how your habits make the children heavy
bored. I was one of them, but I'm all grows up & grows up.
I know they'll learn to taste the air around them. Learn their
way between bridges & to firmly shake you w/ both hands.
There but for the grace of god,
Dear Rock Island—
Sadly unwinds the smoke from bbq send-
offs. Ending in dis- less than beginning. Friends, as you
said, touch land & fly away. So we work, learn to second
guess less than before. We accept consequences of living
in the old fire hazards. Our blood's still clean & no nostal-
gia or legal speed takes us anywhere back. But somehow
we share a language. We speak Esperanto & bear across—
we learn to love the waterways, which bend us as much as
they're bent. Some get remissions, others terminal. Others
just born delivery boys & sacrifices. It's been too long since
we've seen anything but double, seen anyone anywhere but
off. Still we make & manage contact.
Don't fear the reaper,
Copyright 2River. Please do use or reproduce without permission.