Tim Lockridge

It Is Time To Return

to the river since we only
say river when we want
something else: scenic
overlook or shotgun

wedding. These days
the language is less
malleable than promised.
Our mouths are traps

of cotton and it's tough
to talk through stitches
and gauze. Would you
join me if I rented that

rowboat? It's delicately
tethered to the last tree
in sight. I've indexed
the current but lost track

of storms: just something else
tearing through the state.
Your hair looks devastating
in the trade winds, meaning:

let's drive to Oregon this time.
I've got a backseat filled
with almanacs so you can
stop predicting the bends.

I've heard the road lopes
through hills ahead
and the river always runs
parallel. When my hands

touch you, they're pleading:
remember us like the last
step toward shore, the slow
space between an end

and some beginning.