“Stare into the darkness until it returns your gaze.
Accept no substitutes, neither love nor a mirror.” ~ Dave Bonta
The depths return what they’ve been given:
old shoes, bits of broken teeth, snapped pencils.
The carapace of a seahorse, perfectly preserved.
The skull of an animal, smaller than an idol’s.
Who told you to tell your sorrows to the river?
It is always hungry, always trying to swallow
the moon’s silver wafer. And the moon? As always,
it is indifferent to your fate. As always,
it trails its silken garment, a lure weaving
in the dim rushes. The water you cup, falls
through your fingers like so much silver. Sometimes,
it’s hard to tell what love is, from its other.