I was always adept at disappearance.
Just silt and gutterwash slipping off the ridge.
Brown water and runoff, thick chemistries
down to the trout streams, crisp, unmuddied.
Perhaps, though eroded by my passage,
shaped, however briefly by this greedy torrent,
heedless of the lumbers and rounding stone,
I hope for a simple clear to surface.
I am stilled by the rippling eyes of you,
these faces above a drowning.
These each and varied grains of you,
these flakes of skin and hair of you
remain, held close in this current,
oft rabid, oft flat and running,
knowing only one nature –
to keep on – to keep on –
to keep until tides reclaim.
Image: Ivan Bandura on Unsplash