by Nick Visconti

Here is the river no one owns, claimed
by runoff sediments innervating
floodplains. I look north and see jets,
international, kipping above the clouds,
banking on ground-level trust, the pilots
have eyes good enough to count seeds,
the absurd amount of seeds lemons house,
or the thread counts of a motel’s bed sheets.
I’m here to search, and it only reveals how
large the world is, housing everybody,
cruel and clever, hiding the live ones,
unreached, who make the world turn over.

Logan, I fear death, more than anyone,
for its pain. I hope you live or died well.

Nick Visconti is a writer living in Brooklyn. He plays softball on Sundays.