Nicolas Bock

First, a soupy river blushing
against opposite banks, polar
by design, credible.

Coupled blue lights catch rock
stale and dry, intrusively square
and ripe for landing.

Then, dark steel to hastily fasten
disparate shores, a stitch, slowly
graded and direct.

Improbable fingers bear skyward
caution for the obscured river
the flattening hills.

Some of us were there, quietly
engorged, plying mouths with half
truths and future vows,

silver lined assurances of white hued
isolation, of an abandoned brown river
blackly laden with disuse.