Beyond my pillow

the Arno

stalls.

Carp are still.

No current discloses

source from destination.

Spring and sea

pause

like two middle-aged

shoppers comparing

the virtues of

fresh water with salt.

I recall that my father

once swam

in the Arno.

On vacation from

death, I

settle implacably

into the smooth sheets

of the present,

my old wishbones

content

to watch river-silk

wattle the ceiling.

—Nikia Leopold