The sun settles

on the far side of the river,

under cover of cottonwood, oak, and elm;

in the shadow of grain silos,

the Union Pacific trestle

offers no sure footing, my love:

we either follow, or fall.

I might remain idle

here on the east side of the levee,

but for your blinking in the wind,

your shortness of breath,

and the slow screams which

I heard on your waking;

I could hardly condemn you

to another restless night

on these sweaty sheets.

Our feet form a strange forest

for bullfrogs, chiggers, fireflies,

and copperheads, our hands

a trembling bower, mosquito cover;

we have nothing, we are blind,

our breath barely mixed with the

exhalation of cicadas, our spirits

so far removed from any ancient altar,

our tongues so torn from each other

that we form monosyllables,

yet hear nothing at all.

God answers back from the pulse in your neck;

the river refuses to bend.