Alone on the Deschutes
by Elly Bookman
There is a morning, and there are
brown eyes rising somewhere
against a dense piano bass line
meant to begin things. This river
has come to fill in the dug – out canals
with whitecaps cropping up so far between
that I learn the catch of that dawn
and fear floating off: there is the return
as my now still, different self
to the city I left still growing. Now
standing just before it all comes into day,
when the light lands like a bruise
at my feet and aches in the air
around me, there is barely breath left
to convince against the improbable
second love: I believe it unique,
capable of encouraging a big eddy
around my whole inside song. And there
is the gleaming, auroral blindness.