After many years, the river runs into the river

but is tired of leaving no trace
of its origins. The land itself 
has changed; and the skies 
are always missing a body 
that vapors into nothing. But water 
is always this blue haze in the mind. 
Or a limpid thing with none of the brittle 
edges of glass. Or a glossy brown sheet 
over which a ferry is crossing. Water 
wants to touch the face looking 
over the handrail, bored by the sun,
tired of its own loneliness and need. 
The loneliness of water is also 
                      like that: empty 
theatre filled with echoes of other
voices, making it seem unoriginal. 
Water wants to throw itself into 
an opening and understand
slaked or flooded 
      or filled. But the metaphysic 
of moments is a privilege claimed 
by stable bodies. Water is not—
at the same time is more than— 
two drops fixed by gold wire 
and dangling from the earlobe.
Put it to bed in a box flocked
with velvet. 
         Carry it cupped
in both hands as you walk 
through a field that feels
larger than any sense of yourself
that you know. But still tenderly. 

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