I remember in the Summertime
when the river respired orange
in the remained gloaming, as if
a long shadow of candysweet.
Sand islands tiny and
fleeting–
A hot trickle of
molasses.

And when the steam fissured its
face and set it spinning in an
increasingly incendiary midmorning–
As if all would suddenly
stop and revolve the other
direction–
I sat longfaced in a moving car,
wondering why I hadn’t gotten
a job as the pavement rolled
contracting and elapsing beneath.

The Summer holds weight.
Wheat blear, crystalized amid a
sloped ray.
There are some
stalks hanging–
as if pain, held like a murmur,
laps the metalsurfaced waters
And swims.