Thanks

For Rick Mann

Your friend grabbing your wrist, as he hung

from the rusty metal ladder, calling out, Do

you need help?—the ladder fixed by bolts

to the concrete abutment sticking into

the river above the falls, your fingernails

dragging bit by bit over the rough stone

with your legs at the lip of plunging water,

and you being powerless to pull them back,

the current being too strong, grasping that

you’d soon be swept into the white cauldron

below—the result of not seeing the current

was pulling you into the center of the river,

as you’d half-swum, half-floated, supposing

a few strokes would take you to shore. So

what did you think might happen out of all

the decreasing possibilities? Why, nothing

at all, as you stared up at blue sky and trees

coming into full leaf, because why think

in such glorious weather? So you didn’t notice

you were gathering speed as you floated under

the small bridge; so you hadn’t considered

anything but pleasure when you first waded

into the water, leaving your sandals on the bank,

the current no more than a gentle tug, a dip

before dinner, as you thought of the evening

ahead—your wife, a movie, a book—but not

of the river where many swam, but not past

the bridge; stepping into the river, secure

in your belief in ongoing tomorrows, which

was stupid, stupid, because soon you’d be

an instant from being swept over the falls.

Then would you still think you could determine

the end of an action at the start of an action

as you had done when drifting downstream,

because, really, what is the meaning of safety?

A dream, an ambition? Why, nothing at all.