What has Water Washed Away

active, the trees flush and full, the sand pliant, and
the mud. Droplets collide with each substance now
raucous, now soothing, and the world in all its shapely
glory returns.
I dreamt about black widows last night. I dreamt that a
black widow bit me on the upper lip, and a cousin saw
it. Saw it escape, but I reached for it, and there was
another, a second black widow.
Summer smoke. Spring salmon were at their
third lowest count on record this year, and river
temperatures came to within 2 degrees of mortality
thresholds for these ancient fish. Please let there be
a fire. Please, a fire, the people prayed. Then the fire
came, and with it, the smoke. Summer smoke filled the
sky and partially shaded the waters from the hot sun.
Summer smoke cooled down the river as it coursed from
high ground to deltas. Summer smoke blew blues and
grays across the valley lips, overcast the big bald sky,
dropped the water chilly and dark back into favorable
conditions for spring salmon to survive another year,
and to spawn. Summer skies are supposed to fill with
smoke; summer rivers are not supposed to boil.
Oh ocean’s ancestors, how do we contain and protect
mystery, like you have done? How do we encapsulate
possibilities, like testate amoebe do. Like protozoa?
The enormity of outer space spans and courses, spasms
and boils, and oh how it freezes. While my knees grow
achy and sore, my hands chafe, and outer space sits
full of rocks like a cold and magnificent pile of washed
dishes. I rub Matt’s temples, I watch his eyelashes
upturn, I feel the knots burn under his skin, and outer
space churns on unnoticed, magma and supernova. Oh
kernel of ornamented heaven. Oh filament of fragrant
flower. Oh thread of fragile thought. Water’s logic
is muscular. The sea is oh so strong, the deep velvet
and obsidian miles. Those ancient rules, pressure
and weight, can so simply sweep away small riverine
dwellings. Once river is chained, squared, tied, and
12