The River
by Darrell Epp
twitching waiting for the mailman
wondering about how things change.
“you can’t step in the same river twice,”
you said, because the river’s constantly
changing. “if that’s true,” i said, “you
can’t step in the same river even once,
can you? it’s changing as you’re stepping,”
but you didn’t understand what i meant
and you certainly never understood how
much i wanted to build us a treehouse
in the jungle where we could eat bananas
all day and i could beat my chest like i
was tarzan lord of the apes. and what
were you thinking anyhow, glibly quoting
heraclitus to a man with tears in his eyes?
like a dog returning to his vomit i patrol
the used bookstores, the empty cathedrals.
the sheets don’t smell of you, like always.
how gone you are, how always returning.
