Tin
Tonja Gunvaldsen Klaassen
Expecting tin can lanterns, a party:
cold trout on blue willow, spark of the river’s tinsel.
The aluminum canoe, a tinderbox we slide ourselves into
tipsy on the river’s sulk.
An anniversary gift, better than confections
or silks. Scissors won’t open it. A secret
the clouds conjugate north of the weir.
Tenir. To hold. Tongues of silt.
August: the aspens open their tissues, temptations.
The river, a rival
current. On the surface: flotsam, a million proofs.
Clutching the paddle, shove out the thoughts that nudge—
Copyright © Tonja Gunvaldsen Klaassen, 2009.
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