By Michael McGriff
Tonight, the whiskey fires burning
on the moon move through me
like a hammer swung in the dark,
and if you are water the moon
is painting itself across you.
If you are water I am running my hands
through you. If you are water
my left hand is a horse thief
my right hand is alder smoke
drifting the ridge.
I am the old dike road
and you are pushing your wet shoulders
into the black silt of me.
I am a piece of glass
falling through itself.
But you are not water, and I am
on my knees bent over the edge
of the dock, moving my hands
through the vague glimmer
of distant cities, the bioluminescence
coiled around each finger.
through you. If you are water
my left hand is a horse thief
my right hand is alder smoke
drifting the ridge.
I am the old dike road
and you are pushing your wet shoulders
into the black silt of me.
I am a piece of glass
falling through itself.
But you are not water, and I am
on my knees bent over the edge
of the dock, moving my hands
through the vague glimmer
of distant cities, the bioluminescence
coiled around each finger.
