They always suspect foul play, drugs, fights
like that’s the only way for a boy
to end up in a river.
but there are parts I don’t think you’d understand:
how we are all made up of salt and river sand
and water, water, water, water, water
Hypothesize me this:
if a boy goes fishing at night alone
is he more likely to catch a mermaid?
runs through my fingers, water never lies
but it can make a nest inside your eyes
so nothing ever, ever hurts again.
Then, if I drew him a bridge
if I drew him a note over the fog bank,
a bag packed for running away,
here time is slow, deliberate and kind,
it doesn’t rush, or hurry, doesn’t mind –
eternity is just a trick of light.
a burrowing longing
that frets and pulls and tugs and looks –
is this better?