So you mostly walk the deck
and watch the shoreline slip away,
Indiana on the left, Kentucky on the right,
your world shrinking down
to the girl, the boat and the enveloping dark.
You hang out over the stern railing
above the paddlewheel that mows
through muddy green meadows of river
and churns out frothy haystacks,
dark hills of just-lived moments
receding one by one into night.
You hold hands like there’s no letting go,
like you won’t slip into the churning.