Earth’s water is older than the sun:

older than the streets through which our dreams
go daily in search of sustenance, and nightly
return in search of what we used to be—

And in its hidden springs are crystals
with origins in the stars, their glimmer fraught
with effort of remembering— So then, in the distance

between thirst and its unintended forsaking,
the hinged collarbone becomes a cleft, a well—
When was the last time I felt

the imprint of your lips there, or traced
with fingertips the hidden moisture in your eyes
after our bodies kissed and we had parted ways?


In response to Via Negativa: Old Water.

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