Grandma’s River

by Jeremy Garcia

What highway strays by the forming roads

The fortunate wheel hushing through the backward passes

Beneath a run by the jaggy rocks

And leans right beside a bridge. 

The woods float around the kicking sky with

Some of the living debris fleeing, as quietly as foggy,

And the conquering slab wets with a drop. 

Led through this surrounding high ride, by an instance of a purely talented turn, 

A ‘motto’ continues within the unending tunnel vision of directions, trailing red thought trains, 

And an exhausting pigmenting that’s looks burnt.

With the smooth straps left undone by an overly reflective sign,

A typical reading from the Department,

Running was bound to happen on the still new floor 

And slipping was fast seen on the hell bending to get to the eventual water race. 

If the felt put along the way of solo travel leaves a rough mark 

It’s a rash of ideas for the kind sleeves you’ve all worn on the heart;

The dividing surface is the reason for the rush to the head

And loudly paving the skin’s ink with the limelight will surely break apart Grandma’s River.