The Ohio is a dirty brown marble rolling west though its pace tells us otherwise. We hover outside Louisville just enough to know absence, to feel ourselves rippling apart. The humidity alone peels. The first rush of the locals ripens into a pallid afterthought, a condition otherwise known of as portraiture. Just as the sky faces us seeing how we’ve aged beneath its wilderness, the atmosphere kneels down to present daydreams that never happen. Perhaps this is a race I’m too late in noticing— always close to shore, we move from mud to nothingness, a no-place suspended above steam. The calliope stumbles through a hot-tempered version of Waiting For Robert E Lee Down Yonder and history wears us long enough to know the year. Halves of hands pierce hot smoke as we slip beneath Big Four Bridge. Long-elbowed waves, goodbye— quick wrist flips, if you must go, be quick— and nothing good happens fast because this is the good that moves pools of movement parting waves parting lips almost as wet. I want to pull pedestrians from steel trusses into the murky light of the riverbed but their hands are too far to reach, the Belle lurches forward, beckons in every direction as we turn—to me, to you.