If not by falling #1-3



You will follow the river upstream one morning,
pushing your barrowed bones against the pulse,

watch morning light press threads through clouds
to stitch across the waking water,

the sky above will turn from lead
to stone, then to phosphor streaked blue

and you will watch the river rise beneath
a body arcing now above and you will wonder

what it would mean, to love like that, to lift,
to be lifted by gravities against gravity

and you will feel so small, so accidental,
your sadness now, a pink guilt blushed indulgence.


When I say to you the river speaks to me,
then I mean to say the river speaks to me


and in its way moves always out around us,
swallows the limp limbed grief we pour in

and asks what use would I, a river, have for this
but accepts it still. And continues on,

having stripped the hills upstream of stone,
smoothing out rough metaphors

and pressing mountains out to seas.
You might throw yourself from a bridge one day,

to slap and burst against it, or walk into a
waiting deep, a stone to sink at last but you,

will go belly up and bloat as fat
as any other lost and lonely beast

and the river, all curve and tidal constants,
will only have you long enough to cast you off,

until your bones tangle in mangroves
or snag amongst the rocks,

are pulled apart by crabs
then ground to sand and lost.

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