River of discontent, river of longing,

river that plucks with the wind at my sleeve

or the hem of my dress for attention—
I love my solitude but I love the light

that bounces back the syllables of your name
and woos me like a lover: then you are chime

on the blade’s metal edge, red thread
running through a vest, that something else

wanting to glint like a brooch or a star
against the breast of an ordinary life.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Present.

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