Evening, and the river.
The longitudes inside you.
You reach in, pocketing a green furred stone.
Change the river,
you change too.
At first the world was yours but you owned nothing.
Sweet tarnished pears.
Now, only ache.
The apple’s broken skin.
Small bitter bite.
You’re sick from this fruit.
What you might need now.
The horizon in you starts to climb.
Everything left behind
tiger lilies by the back fence,
empty lawn chair on the porch,
stuttering whirr of an old Singer.
The sheer silk of the river wrinkling
salmon-pink in last-ditch sunlight.
You’re already gone.
The way a mountain’s deckled edges disappear in rain.