after J.M.W. Turner

A slowness escapes itself
and enters, here, into the river,

into the bay, into the space
where water is neither bay

nor river, into the footbridge,
into the wisps of blue

untangling themselves from clouds,
into the boys who’ve tumbled

down the hill, on their way
over the bridge, on their way

to the trees. They’ll go
just after they recover.

First, they must pant.
They must rest their bodies

after the journey, after
tossing themselves through

the grasses. They must wait,
close. They must pause.