this sorrow sticks out
is curved like a rib. will not hold me.
words are no good today
bones I shuffle
on the table
a rattle in a baby’s crib
the words do not give a damn.
I sit in the sore cacophony of
what it means to utter anything.
being human is to know such things—
that even your tears do not need you
but will follow your grief up a glacial bed of stones
seek meaning in its half life.
I go down to the river. watch it
the way I was never taught to watch TV.
creep toward where infinities split.
where things fall apart with a purpose
we cannot fathom
while underfoot twigs crackle as if
we have started a fire.
the minuscule thoughts of grass blades and
small life weave the fabric of bank
keep the river in mind at all times. I grow
the way Heraclitus did—
the rain weighs fragile stems to the ground
multiplies the light into numerous prismatic fractions.
my step softens. in this overture I listen
for what springs out of decay.
in this tremulous toil
the day grows
one raindrop at a time.
learn how to hold it here
( the sorrow )
so it will not swallow you
so it will not hollow you out—