The Point

You wore jeans
into the stream.
Didn’t matter,
we were both wet,
hiking in flipflops
up scarped inclines
to snuggle black rock.
Snakes before they shed,
you always let me write
the last line in your head.

Your hand a cup,
we drank the froth up.
Pressed in sedimentary rocks
fossilizing an impulse,
backdrop to a conflux.
Our cheeks deep red,
too may roses to fit
my unused vase,
a lighthead, dizzy
from the current’s pace.

I pushed you farther,
down wild water
without a raft of final words.
Now, the mudflats stick.
The rocks dulled long ago,
and I wish to sink back
through the rapids of time,
hear the roar of persuasion
once more, and watch you
drink the river of my eyes.

IAN SWEET “Drink the Lake”


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