Inertia

There’s this picture of you standing

on a train bridge under a cloudy sky

somewhere in Ontario. And you’re

grinning that wild-eyed grin of yours, the one that

reminds me of the crash of waves

and the lonely loon call and all the other sounds

that we never got to hear.

And beneath the bridge there runs a river,

where the water passes over dry stones

only once, forging on past a world

just daring to happen, and it never doubles

back. It never touches the same stone twice.

(It’s a game of touch and go, out there

in the Canadian wilderness.)

I want to be like that river,

but I still keep our photos in a special album on my phone.

Move along now, those pictures say to me,

You’re body’s mostly water. You live

to touch the good folks only once,

and as always, you’ve strength enough

to leave them where they stand.