My sons and I slide around a question mark,
leap off its curve.
Its current tows us under.
Our rumps punctuate the rapids,
dot each i.

The boys are bounced off stones,
carry on the busy, insect life of punctuation
in the river,
float on it like commas.

The rushes won’t stop fondling.
We tire of their fuck, fuck against our thighs,
of the small, stubborn egos of stones,
old men’s stubby pricks
poking out.

The river ripples and slopes like an open zipper.
We jerk our hands back
out of a mossy dark.
Even the boys grow timid.

Two final question marks
crouching closer together —
they drift away.
I can’t draw them back. I watch helpless as a word placed
just before them.