Even as you sit smoking weed
in the room I just cleaned
and leave your papers
and dirty dishes on the desk,
not making the bed I just resheeted,
there is no amount of missing you
that is enough.

It goes on and on like the Mississippi
flows in constant cycles
from mountain top through
craggy forest, across prairie,
between savannah and bottom land
into bay, then ocean,
to be lifted by heat and wind
up through high air, gathered up
into clouds that spin round the earth,
to dust mountain tops with snow …

I observe, I count …

so missing you goes.
This year, the Mississippi.
Next year, the Missouri.
Then the Ganges, the Tigre,
the Amazon, the Seine.
Round and round,

it floats up and pours down,
sometimes out of sight,
but always on the move,
pressing down hard,
drowning the heart,
which cannot find dry land.