I'm searching for a lost river and I find too many different
individuals that link me into a forgotten logic.

There's a grocery store in what I've misspelled—just below
a group of people afraid to read unbuttoned indifference.

I try to summon my mother and other glistening exits
I find strangers that come up on Google with missing teeth—

Wine drinkers are here milling around a party in 1936
a party I could almost be invited to . . .

—footnotes included here are about what . . .

yellowed that night: a dead flamingo, a woman driving
a Cord, photographs of missing pilots on her front seat.

In blind searches I find relatives I met in Carson City
through sepia tone photographs

one with a missing eye—one with hands far away in the night.