Getting caught
In a sea of umbrellas.
A salmon swimming up stream
Pink, man-made flow, obscenity turns.
And luck. Images in cahoots with possibility.
Babbling up the brook, marching ants’ signs, full of bravado.
Now we know that there are snowmen.
It is the whiteness of the page
And the hustle of digits
Faces lit up in the dark.
Impossibility of
Now.