breakthrough, Niagara Falls

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breakthrough, Niagara Falls

A flowing beard of grey-white water weeps
its hoary way down slopes 

that no one but itself can see. The spray 
is thick, the foggy cape 

the world feigns to wear on poolside days
when chlorine eyes will haze

the world in white. The man with the Yankee’s hat 
pulls tight his poncho’s strap, 

cocooning in to keep the droplets out, 
while nervous mothers shout 

at boys who lean out on the ferry rails
to test their pluck and stare

down in the sucking, frothing maw. Clicks
of cameras rain down thick 

as shirts that boast you'll find me at the falls!,
and somewhere in the back 

a woman raises skyward hands and weeps, 
prostrate on her knees

to worship what she cannot seem to say
but stands her hair on end. 

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