Every day the river narrows, squeezing
carbon from the sand and the grit resting
nervously below. Someday the banks will touch,
they will crash and they will trap
any safety that remains between them, and they will raise a roof,
entwine a layer against the sky; the people will try,
but they will not break it.
They will not break the banks.
And you and I, we will rest someday.
You will be knocked off balance and you will
fall forward. I will pretend that the air is cold and that your hands
are gloved. I will pretend you are safe, and I will never feel
your skin on mine. Who will ever?
When the day is dark, who could say whose
hands will hide his face,
or whose fingers will speak the most.
Somewhere they say that rocks float;
that water flows uphill and metal falls apart
if you don't watch it,
if you don't hold it
carefully. Men play in the streets. Children speak softly
to the trees, and we drop sheets of paper from the sky,
though we have never been there, this somewhere. Have you been there?
Every day the river narrows I
come a little bit closer to believing in the power of color,
of sight and sound and your mouth
across the table, sucking in. Breathing out.
Twisting shapes in the dark and speaking
of time. Always of time.