The Narrows

it was a river      it was the stars
your chin          on my chin
it was October        and we looked up
there was nothing    to eat
we hunted water          in the season
after the season        of floods
we had no map       no ursa major
we smoothed rocks        hard as pears
canyon wind carved         our throats
the stars turned        a torn map
to teeth and           october slit
our tongues                    all of it rotting
unpicked and yellowed    in the sky
your chin on my chin        cidered clean