I buried my lover, deep,
under floorboards of
cinnamon dreams and
stale condoms.
The planking moves –
ambushed by time
as time snared me
when I was green,
unacquainted with
the monster we ride.
There is no paddle,
and rocks cascade through,
shattering lumps of wood
that corner us on the shards
of raft that remain.
I bury my lover.
There is nowhere else
for her to go.
She goes deep.
Shattered splinters shift,
break up,
and leave her behind.
If there is a god
he is a lover of steamboats
who goes under his own power
and plows through our barges,
leaving nothing.
This river is made of tears.
The salt of upstream romances
carry me, and my tears
carry funeral boats for buried flames.
There is nowhere for me either,
unless I enter that river,
go deep,
and drown.
copyright (c) 2011 Daniel J. Bishop
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