Everything Soluble

It’s the way leaves absorb sunlight.

A drop of sweat lands on your shirtsleeve.

Squeeze the sponge in the sink, water running, let go.

A twig snaps somewhere off the path, now transfixed.

Covered in blankets in bed, watching Netflix.

The football coming down, a long bomb, and the defender leaps for it.

Her fingers tapping scratching across your back.

Cigarette smoke exhale fades in the moonlight.

How a whole stadium becomes a drop of water.

How a man and his computer become soap suds.

How a backpacker turns to moss.

Ashes to ashes, the universe is still Banging away,

one glob stretching into infinity.

Laughter and cricket chirps ride in on the August night breeze.

Bad Trip

A friend calls at 3AM on a bad trip.
"Where do you want to go?" is the first thing he asks me.
Then, when I don't know: "I'll take you 'round the bend."
We are on the Amazon River. He has been piloting this stretch
for thirty-five years now, but he's thinking of quitting.
It's just not worth the risk anymore. He is lying in bed
with a cigarette, ash down to the fingers,
his phone propped against his ear by force of gravity.
I am on my couch with Augustine's Confessions 
stretched across my lap like a leopard in the sun.
Both of us agree that thirty-five years is a long time.