Where the holy river ebbs enough to drive on it,

priests dip a mason jar to fill for temple guardians

whose thirst is renown.

Crouching low this morning with a half-full jug,

I almost catch a whirring wooden raft.

The skipper is busy mounting his girlfriend—

a green mantis resting on two of her elbows, not praying

but bumping down the rapids on a chunk of albesia bark

hurtling toward the deadly falls at Strong Knees.

Inside a parked minivan a child films me

as I shake my head at the river, shocked.

"What kind of a man mates on a slippery oarless raft?

What kind of a woman can’t sense the downfall in ecstasis?"

I ponder this, then rise up on my own bare toes,

not two feet from the mirroring surface.

Smug as a pope.