Floating the Clark Fork River

The book has been boo tigered, when will the feathers fall sallow, the shallow beds and the vociferous among us want to remind you there’s iron in your blood, a bitter tingle. I want to tell you about how I feel in my heart the loneliness, the way the blood tickles it with no one to share that sensation with. The loneliness of you being gone, the way sentences are wired and the way they wend their way past broken into new syntactical patterns worth eloping. I saw the way the water broke, the way your clothes sounded in the drier, and I wept about it. A robot wept. Thinking about ducks and connotation. Brash down, now noun.