On the Ohio
As half of the sun
becomes the whole sun,
I decide to say not half
but the whole thing.
We note the beauty silently.
The German Shepherd’s understands
the angles of ball after tennis ball.
The straightest path.
The topwater shimmers like oil
and polyethylene as the river moves
toward its emptying.
The opposite of beauty is what we choose to look away from.
You point to the trash
caught on the piling of the pedestrian bridge,
spinning with the layered currents.
What else do I ignore
to point out the reddening doily
stenciled on your chest by your complicated
See, less serious about matters.
It’s much easier when we have spatters
to worry about. Mosquito-insides-
made-outsides by our palms.
Bumps and splotches on shins and shoulders.
I can see it now:
us surveying ourselves up and down
in the mirror before we turn in for the night,
reminded of the bites
just when we have forgotten them.
We will shudder and wonder what else
we might have done to ourselves.