You forget how deep you can swim
since what mattered then matters more,
your arms, like sticks, floating palms up,
backstroking daily prayer.
Your mouth filling fast with the sky’s
summer rain, quenching your thirst
like an Appalachian ghost drowning
in the Steel Mill’s shadows of rust
your Grandfather wore on his skin like dusk
the one you’re waking from now to see
that only the river’s timeless mind
knows how deep to deep can be.
Daniel Moore lives in Washington on Whidbey Island. His poems have appeared in Spoon River Poetry Review, Rattle, Columbia Journal, Western Humanities Review, and others. His books, This New Breed: Gents, Bad Boys and Barbarians Anthology and Confessions of a Pentecostal Buddhist, can be found on Amazon. Visit Daniel.