He waits confused by the side of the rushing
gushing river while it foments small liquid rebellion
against the water gods by running up rocks
and over banks then all of a sudden the moment seizes
him and he realizes why he is here present-in-hand
he has come to give thanks though no closer
to his goal the knowledge helps him...
and night is a violent ebony vine fading to dust
from the ground up. This is morning dew or call it dusk:
Even the rhythm and cycle of this life is not something that he trusts.
For we are all black and winter-bound... and he just
hopes that someone will wake him when springtime ends.
5.31.2010
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