A cough sings
its old pneumonia
caught in Fergus by the bridge.
Like memory it’s fool’s gold
arranged in dissonance
that repeats.
So let us pan the shades
of the fading lives
frayed in the river’s
silver, salted sun.
Let us weep as
the current sweeps
the dusty fish which curl
through eyelet bays.
If I could swim up through
from the stones
pressed in the clay
then thread into the night
that pools
inside you.
If I could be the ice
that thins
into a window
that you open in your light.
If I could breathe
all that in again.

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