In Montague we ate fruit first. Downriver, pits
we gave to the water eddied away and sank fast.
The mill hosts parties, weddings, a bride
is here, trailing tulle in the dust, we move cherries
without looking from the bag to our mouths.
I’d put my hands on them, the books
that slept inside. I ran fingers up their spines
above the Sawmill fifty feet down, years before
I took you there with paper bags of bread.
The trees lost leaves; they joined us on the rocks –
but by the time we’d gotten to the wine
whose red was like the rumpled trees,
you laid your book aside. We were among
empty paper bags and rind, some stems.
The water turns itself; the mill-wheel sleeps.
Upstairs, a woman loses her papers
out the window, her body swanning out
over the water, she is grasping, fugitive pages
join us on the rocks. The river steals a spoon.