By The Beaver Dam

We crouched in the river

letting our mouths, noses,

flat palms feel the slight

bubble of water tension.

There was a carcass coated 

with flies to our right.  

It was perfectly cloudy

when we undressed.  

I kissed each freckle 

on your back until 

the oaks staggered

and the robins hushed.  

The air clotted, 

the thunder whooped, 

and I forgot you 

were there at all.

Couch Potatoes

His hands shuffle
next to me. I'm
looking for something

in the lines
that crinkle
from his eyes:

a tributary, a river
basin.  It has rained
for nineteen days—

the weatherman
tells us so, smiling.
Channel three

is flickering again.
Maybe love is selfish,
like too much rain.

Fragmented roots slide
from earth, ungrounded
by what nourishes.