Drifting on the glacier's current
under the first taste of months to come
(come Summer and next year)
come the memories
first the real ones
follow the fabrications:
My mother painting her fingernails
My teeth marks in your back
My family's broken merry-go-round
The tears on your face
the night I wouldn't let you leave and
I found out that he'd hit you
again and again
the memories come like water, no-
they are water-
water being life
life becoming recollection.
They slide downstream
broken rocks
a broken path
with a splash! Crash!
A boulder cracked and
water so cold it's pure
blessed by Inuits
kissed by Winter's lash
That's the turn and pike of
too many season's laughter
and hitchhiking down
the state's most dangerous highway.
But how else will one learn secrets like:
past the cafe, up the left
where the road washed out like film
a ghost town thrives
and you can meet me there
we'll travel the river together.
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