Something about a flood, I know—
something about a nation.
Warrior, warrior. Oakridge High School,
circa nineteen-eighty-nine.
I touched her down by the river.
In February, we exchanged virginity.
By August, we both smelled
of others. I washed her down
by the river with Neil Young &
a ghetto blaster. Small brown one,
pardon the objectification,
but the de-materializer is broken.
I’ve tried to be luminous, but you
walk too long in the dark
and the filaments decay. Please,
curl on me. Stay until the Osage floods
the prairie. Take something. Take
the interstate. Take a stand. When
you look out your window what
do you see? Stand on your tiptoes and call.