Ralph Sneeden
In June, I pulled a sheet
across my father's face.
Now, on the river bank,
in late summer haze
and its contentions of sewer,
skunk, and barbecue, I watch
the evening current of birds
over the town, forking
past the dome, a gilded
boulder in their stream.
Farther north, the halves
of the new highway bridge
reach toward each other
like an elderly couple
across the space between
twin beds. This fall I'll drive
where I couldn't. A road
through the air above the river
where there wasn't one before.


In Posse: Potentially, might be ...