On Mad River
by Jake Sheff
For my daughter, Madeleine
I resist the camouflaging brought on
by daily, metallic choices
about faith in God and calibre,
defining the incessancy of love
with political parties behind schedule
relative to the moon.
But as internal and broadband
as spiritus mundi
can get, I practically beg to
individualize without
losing sex, or ball-bearings
that sleeve my present,
in-turning and blatantly
united. In pristine
channels that emerge
at daytime, I appear
distracted or relieved
of my hold on
Maddie’s voice and Maddie’s
voices for all her
unwittingly marvelous
complications on their way
and departing, projecting
my nervousness in portions
palatable to the Miami Valley.
distracted or relieved
of my hold on
Maddie’s voice and Maddie’s
voices for all her
unwittingly marvelous
complications on their way
and departing, projecting
my nervousness in portions
palatable to the Miami Valley.
The Drowning Gull
19