The River

River at the bend, sluggish, crisps into glass. Here and there you stood brittle, the city reaching out to the water behind you. There are photos somewhere else, each moment clear as gasp, stood in the way of your mouth, the burning nuzzle. How small things, smaller than memory, come back like shrapnel. Make plans. The opposite of syncopation, something wrung from blankets and new contortions. It’s a thin want. But they’re waiting for it, spilt sweet.