The River Rises Up in the Night.
Wet beads cling to everything metal:
stanchions, guy wires, the bow hook
left leaning against the cockpit door
all glaze in tiny shimmering drops of light.
The river rises up in the night. Towels hung
to dry, now more sodden than the day before.
Her smoky wetness drifts into my bed; I awaken
damp and clammy, taste her earthy scent;slither
from my bunk, glide up the ladder into the shadows.
The river rises up in the night, licks my pajamas
with a cool wet tongue, brushes her fragile fog
through my tangled hair. Vapors permeate my flesh,
diffuse into my soul, swirl beyond the margins of myself.
The river rises up in the night, works her magic
with smoke and mirrors, burns scenes
of mystical madness onto her tree lined banks
until I, and the river, dissolve into one.
