One Story Leads to Another . . .

On the Flyleaf of
Above the River

We dance clumsily with our words

while our pet dog controls the rhythm

and the world does not know

how to control him, nor release us

from its festival arms.

We make do with our disregarded rhythms

for we are carried away by our spirited feet

into cumulous clouds because we have begun

to sing with exhilarated voices that know nothing

about containment nor pitch. 

Scroll to Top