I run the rapids
on his back. A rocky ride,
an avalanche of spray
and chance. Twists and

turns. Old returns
of smiles have me belted
in the moving whirlwind. I’ve
fallen off once or twice. But the water’s

cold as ice. And I can’t swim. He
has a knack for pulling me
back. Mountains and trees, swirling
leaves of memories steady me, amongst

the spider sun. I spun and spun
as a **** on a vane. Now the falls
are fast here as a cockroach
in the kitchen cabinet. I’ve no regret.