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the poem I wanted to write
drew a tree, a mountain, ice, and a man
who might have been my brother
but he was really watching the river rise
and the clang of the anchors–
he watches the anchors rise
and how the water sworls muddy
brown in the center, as if the fish
below had loosened a drain
the poem I wanted to write cracked
when the wind blew sending
sharp things onto the leaves
it pits me against the bears
it pits me against rain that freezes
on impact with matches
yes, mountains, ice, and trees
and there remembering it all
is what might be my brother
the day he walked into it
and disappeared forever