To give forever of oneself because oneself, though puckered
and sagged, has not yet been tom and has air in its silks still.

To swing over the river to enter this life and exit this life
buoyant. Or at least, however precariously, aloft. With muscle.

Not to fall to where they have fallen and from where they can never cross.
Such faces.

I stayed up for years. Disregarding their expressions.
Their mud-stranded resignation. In tributaries.

And then my son. And what he did to boys.