Yard Sale of Thoughts

You wore jeans
into the stream.
Didn’t matter,
we were both wet,
hiking in flip-flops
up scarped inclines
to snuggle black rock.
Snakes before they shed,
you always let me write
the last line in your head.

Your hand a cup,
we drank the froth up.
Pressed in sedimentary rocks
fossilizing an impulse,
backdrop to a conflux.
Our cheeks deep red,
too many roses to fit
my unused vase,
a light-head, dizzy
from the current’s pace.

I pushed you farther,
down wild water
without a raft of final words.
Now, the mudflats stick.
The rocks dulled long ago,
and I wish to sink back
through the rapids of time.
Hear the roar of persuasion
once more, and watch you
drink the river of my eyes.