“We have all we need, some kind of sky and maybe
a piece of river.”
– William Stafford
Slip out of the main stem of the world,
oversized and rushing with its crude loads
of wheat and oil and the driven wind –
Detour. Collect storms and cottonwood crowns
cast down, a sweet freight shuttling
this way and that, true
to what ballasts it against the dark.
Currents of an old, restless river. Gusts
of light rake our blue crescent –
It reaches low, like rain’s cool hands and holds
this new contour – patient for a slow
wake that can bear anything.