Water in Have One On Me
Or how I am worn to the bone by the river, and, in the river made of light: I’m your little life-giver, I will give my life.
Sit and see how the fog from the port of the bay sits like snow at the foot of the roanoke.
Saying, even then, that there’s a light in the river, and there’s a river made of light. Come on, you little life-giver: give your life.
It was hotter'n hell, so I lay me by the spring for a spell, as naked as a trout.
Farewell to loves that I have known; even muddiest waters run.
Like after the rain, step out of the overhang. That’s all.
We heard the rushing slow intake of the dark, dark water and the engine breaks.
We take a walk along the dirty lake. See the goose cussing at me over her eggs. You poor little cousin, I don’t want your dregs; a little baby fussing over my legs.
The creek is lying flat and still; it is water, though it’s frozen.
We picked our way down to the beach, down to the waves dragging out of our reach. Tangling tails like a sodden sheet. Dangling entrails from the gut of the sea.
My heart became a drunken runt the day I sunk in this shunt.
My home, on the old Milk Lake, where the darkness does fall so fast it feels like some kind of mistake.
But there is another, who is a little older. When I broke my bone, he carried me up from the riverside. To spend my life in spitting-distance of the love that I have known: I must stay here in an endless eventide.
Some nights I just never go to sleep at all, and I stand shaking in the doorway, like a sentinel, all alone. Bracing like the bow upon a ship and fully abandoning any thought of anywhere but home, my home.
Well, the water, it ran deep, my darling, where it don’t run wide.
Breaching slowly across the sea, one mast a flash like the stinger of a bee, to take you away - a swarming fleet is gonna take you away from me.
I’ll wait for you along the ocean and make do with my no-skin.
I took a blind shot across the creek at the black bear.
We lay on the rocks in the sun, watching you and your mama row in.
It’s a beautiful town with the rain coming down: blackberry, rosemary, jimmy crack corn.
And all the while, rain, like a weed in the tide, swans and lists down on the gossiping lawns saying “tsk, tsk, tsk.”
Over the hills, the rain clouds roll. I’ll winter here; wait for a sign to cast myself out over the water, riven like a wishbone.
There is a spring not far from here. The water runs both sweet and clear. Both sweet and clear, and cold. Could crack your bones with veins of gold.
I stood a-wagging at the tap, just waiting on the lagging, rising sap. I held the cold tin to my lips, and in the shrine of a thousand arms, I lowered my eyes to sip.
We came by the boatload and were immobilized.
And, with your knife, you evicted my life from its little lighthouse on the seashore.
I picture you rising up in the morning, stretching on your boundless bed, beating a clear path to the shower, scouring yourself red.