like water

i left that morning without a word to her.

what could i have whispered to this river

lying in her bed

who knows better than i

that water can not be held on to.

it must move onward.

it must change shape,

evaporate, mix with salt, form tide pools.

it must be there for mother’s cheeks

when they lose children.

this river knows

even if she could

she shouldn’t hold on.

her burden is the weight of letting go.

how else could she carry such heavy loads out to sea?

i left that morning

without a word

knowing she saw right through my reflection.

knowing she saw me as no different

than the water.

one day i’d drift down

or drop from the sky

and i would be back

by the river again.

wb

go on.

go ahead. 

remove the plug from the wall. 

let the radio fall 

silent. 

sweep our dust out the door. 

go on.

go ahead. 

deprive the needle of the thread. 

remove the whistle 

from your lips

and the yeast from my bread.

go on.

go ahead. 

extract the senses from the nerves.

exhume the silence 

from the verve.

redact the sky of the birds.

go on.

go ahead. 

rearrange the story 

with the words we said. 

go on.

go ahead. 

wb

orthostatic

with so much color in movement
can you blame the lament
over this bleeding out

observation leaping
to evidence
of the eventual paralysis

a day will wear the slender line
with the thickness
of an orphaned grain;

sand that had been
attached to a continent worn away
by nothing more than water and wind

if continents can crumble into grains
what resistance can i offer
to hold this fragile flesh together

except to remain stubborn and tethered
to these colors
even as the wavelengths fragment
if only to feel the recession
like the drying sand
between high and low tides


wb