This is the same portage. I lift the canoe.
I look for treelight scraping into creeks.

Down there words shimmed for love are damming up
the river and the comets are coming up to breathe.

Trees stand steep as migrants in boats.
Landings are farflung blazes, stepping stones.

Dreams of blisters and the waypoints of addicts.
And seventh and eighth and ninth printings.

The nylon tent takes a breather from darkness.
A caterpillar readies its glow.

She couldn’t have said it better, or worse.
I have passed over everything, and failed.

The world is run-over and, naturally,
my boots choke on the taste of clay.