a poem a day for a year #256

by Amy Turn Sharp


making maps to the crook of your arm
to the place I could fall softly
cartographers blues
when I can't get there
when our paths don't diverge
come together baby
if you were a river
oh man, if we were rivers
there would be a place we'd
eventually find each other
confluence sounds like a word
you could scream
if we were rivers
I'd swim in you
I'd take you in