Finnigan, Jon Dwyer

He was raised on the river.

Knows every fish that breathes its waters.

His veins are salamander dancing.

The arms that stretch themselves from his

Trunk are black locust branches.

Weathered, yes.

Splintered, perhaps.

River mucked, never.

His nights sway in the wind

Catching the dust of the man-made

Machines that beat his soil skin into

A filthy state of existence.

The stars reach their lips down.

Each night they kiss him on the forehead.

One of these days,

He’ll mayfly into their arms.