somewhere around day nine
or ten
it all falls apart,

one of those days where you can’t
face the world with straight
eyes and there’s nothing

for it but to drive right at the sun, right
as it sets, like some
old cowboy in some old movie

off to some damn
rescue. or
to pray

the night holds
its own in borrowed starlight til
you can reach the river

and the morning sun
coming down through the first
of the new leaves.

trace footprints in wet sand.
tell yourself he loves you.
fish the poem from the water.