Various and Sundry Poetry

all the way in

The path to the river is a loose coil of dirt, almost catastrophic, but still, we are bent on descent, eyes on the prize of the view and wet feet and a round stone or two we would not skip but instead pocket for the keepsake box on the dresser, next to a small basket of coins. And because some angel is overseeing these proceedings, knows the answer before we have even asked the question, I look at her legs instead of the path, imagine my hands parting, slipping again, as they did this morning, the warm pocket of her. I want that kind of trust in everything. The water doesn't disappoint, summer in full swing, and my only thought is legs and hands, swimming all the way in.