To grandmothers house we go
They enjoin us, conjoined, twins in a striped candy box. Satchels full of ice and movement, blind sinkers in the creek of your moonstruck rivers, under your moonstruck sky, in your eyes. Time ticks and we watch our clocks as space and motion erode the world around us. We're reborn in the season, in treason, under water, encased in stryofoam. The automatic people walk in automatic lines from their clock housings, with their endearing hammers and wooden legs. Briskly the world passes us by, and on a whim we grab hold of its passing branches, the ladders on the train when it slows down, and no one sees us for decades. Some stand in the same place and stare at the same walls for eternity, live and die an oatmeal artifact that will never be again, looking back in search of happiness. But all things lie forward, projected in the future, inevitably approaching and leaving history further behind. Your rapids aren't so rapid.