White River

I wanna zone out
like a porch light flickering.
To fall asleep in the canoe
and get carried by the river
down to where it empties
in the ocean.
I am the sparking match
about to crash into the white tip
of her cigarette.
The fabric of her dress moves like
a forest in the dark,
and her earrings
are like owl eyes.
I will age a year
while sawing plywood
and not look up for once
to even notice.
Not a millennia ago
cloaked men made fires
high as all our buildings
fueled by paintings
of young women
without clothes on.
It did no good
they crawled out
of the ashes
onto glass screens
in the future,
and now we watch them
in the bluest lights
that flicker even
when you close your eyes.