Riding in Cincinnati
Cold river runs cold and colder
live crawdads revolve – understandably
How can you stay in my memorable
castles of steel and words?
silver and dyed blue linens – remote
without escape – we do not plan.
And if my muse is back, she speaks
another language – adroit, uncomplicated
bad fire remains – of course all poetry
is simply dumb sailors adrift beneath
deep sun with much lack of fresh water
eeee oh – ho ho – bottle of gold!