At the river again
watching the stars waving, not drowning
and playing stones across
the glow stick wave tops
marking the water like
blue white road flares
in a two million car, black asphalt, pile up.
No survivors. Sitting still
enough to feel the ground sliding by the water
sitting still, the sky turns
Northwest, and contrails split
moonlight into threads
as they speed on their bearings
behind the black reservoir hill,
I come apart,
held too tightly, and the splinter
glass threads flow away
in their wake.
