Cottonwoods parse their shadows along the river

blanch

and one year do not break winter into leaf

so then say it was poetics that broke the singer’s throat

and wash my hands in the morning sprinkler

while nurses ride up Brooks on bright yellow bikes

this morning I am like a truck driver

who stops in the middle of the road

walks back to check the lock and rub

some dust from the turn light

let that red warning through

and moseys in good weather back to the cab

hauls with one good arm

the heavy self back up to the wheel