In the Niagara River

Patrick Bizzaro

I would spend my days
rolling to my back, entering
a damp coffin. The water
closed around me like cool
silk, the heavy of cushion.
Closing my eyes I imagined
the seeping water to be
cold worms sticking to
my cheeks and chin.

The current spread its breath
around me where I floated
seven miles above the falls.
Tiretubes were poised life
guards every fifty feet.

Missing one, there was always
another tube to grab
like the soft limb
a young boy slips to
when he falls from a tree
toward a hole
where his life waits,
shrunken and wrinkled
as a swimmer's hands.

 

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