Poetry and Poetics
OF THE RAPIDS
Snaggle-Tooth, Maytag, Taylor Fallsó
long before we measured with our
the true size of each monstrosity,
its name, downriver, was famous
It lay in wait, something to be
while our raft, errant, eddied
among glancing pinpricks of sun
and every bend giving way to bend
seemed a last reprieve.
But common terror has a raw taste.
It's all banality, as when
you stare straight into a bad cutó
this sense of being slightly more
awake than you might like.
When the raft pitches sideways off
a ledge, what you land on is less
than its name. It's a mechanism.
of the demented expressions
that the fleshly water forms
over that stone profile
is more than another collision,
a fleeting logic lost and
forming, now lost in the melee.
When the world is most serious,
we approach it with wholly open
even as we start the plunge
and the stone explanation.
© by Jonathan Holden
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