Our Moon is full of blue a shade lighter
than the blue sky against which it hovers,
above the muddied dock we just left
and above the oil rigs and cranes. I cannot decide,
is the machinery only pointing up,
or is it reaching towards the Sphere,
reaching to drag it down?


Turning to face the other
side of the river, the horizon fat with American names and steel
I notice tourists with their phones taking photos
of the Steamboat Natchez. As they render digital
a technology charming in its old-timeyness,
I am preemptively happy for their family and friends.


Now, sailing
under the shadow of titans of industry,
who’ve bought and sold and sold and bought this little town,
I notice that I’ve never noticed
how cold the river mist is on my face.
Well, it is December—
I feel fresh like parsley in the supermarket.