May 5

We sat at the river’s
edge and watched the train
move silently north along
the tracks, then stop and go backwards
smoke rings round island trees
white light filling up the back seat
of supernatural car loving
for five minutes straight
blinding light from the middle
of a black empty field
no one around for miles
life getting good in a canoe
over blue waves
in cold water toward islands with snow in summer

June 3

It’s all spiritual said miles davis
like having the mother of the man who wants you
sit with you at midnight outside your apartment building
car running on idle
telling you the importance of touch and sex
and you thinking
I made love to the river
isn’t it enough
making love to the river yesterday
feeling the godliness of water and clouds and trees in your eyes and on your body as people on the shore laugh at your white skin not seeming to know the sacredness of your act, not seeing how your whiteness melts into the green of river reflecting leaves
how you left your body in the water and let your soul fly over the river
and how in such a state, you see that everything in life is good and meaningful and holy
how you sat on a swinging chair looking out at the river between two mothers who hurt you on the backswing and love you on the forward push towards the river moving soft but swift and the sky moving green and gray and the water green from so many leaves and a fire at your feet and junebugs on your thighs that follow the mothers inside their houses so that they must be called back out like dogs like bluejays like buttercups under your feet

June 10

Rocky Marciano/Muhammad Ali Super Fight TV rerun mesmerizes me,
reminds me to chant my wishes and my greatness:

yellow eyes staring into mine on the river bank—my kayak facing a huge motionless frog—I saw my father looking after me.
I have a young cousin on the coast of Oregon
who has fried his brain from drugs that come up from the sand after the rhythm of waves becomes dull and youthless—
whose eyes roll back in his head when he speaks
who could once play the guitar blindly
after listening to a song
like Ali chanting his greatness,
I can’t imagine his eyes gone back in his head
like I can’t imagine my father being gone—
momentary eyes now pass only through windows, boxing rings, breezes, riverbanks

overlooking green water
on an empty river island
our eyes grow black and huge as fists—
there is a giant spider on the wall
her voice amplified inside the deserted walls
I could feel her words on my hands as she spoke
the vibration on my fingers
eyes growing bigger as they scanned the quiet, memorizing
objects dreamt about over the past months, cans of Pink Salmon
turned upside down to prevent freezing and exploding, stacked in a pyramid, a single Corona bottle in the window
the same lavender candle I smelled last autumn
a little bird peaking in the window, hovering just above the edge and diving down, and peaking
back ten minutes later
an osprey in the trees just the way
he liked it, Ali chanting his wishes