Locks, to stop their turning the smell of the river
where ducks preen into the first of the year and faces about.
Was it after ingesting the blue feather I would turn blue,
like a peacock turns thistle gold, or when parabolas intersect
heat lightning, even vaguely,
and what if we were blond
kisses, bound, taut, or a spring, a blue heron, the wake
of her head,
and what if twine had cuts, streams of disposable
film, the clatter against our hush on the mute where brown,
the hours stood together.
The school clocks glow at night, trains whistle, cats back-
lit in a second-story window
when the river proves no smooth water
for reflection and defeat is a mattress outside the apartments
join the sag of thirty-four years of heirloom roses
along a span,
a prune, a rotary phone. A bush so heavy with sparrows,
John Myers is an MFA candidate at the University of Montana, where he is a Poetry Editor for Cutbank. John grew up in the Endless Mountains. His work has appeared in elimae and is forthcoming in ABJECTIVE.