The farthest away climbers are like the sun
with its song approaching daybreak.
How quickly the river flows, and it is fair,
alive as angels as they were before.
The beauty of breath taking runs like
gold and shines so disappointingly in the dust
of the forest. Bones churn from every path,
the living man is his appearance of a single path
before him. Without the good of the world, the river
will never run the same, and all answers will be
on its journey. Hear the artificial sound of
my painstaking grasp. The statues of her womb
never made a man his fire; the fire of his grief
is the one I give to you, his grasp,
calm and cool as sadness creeps the white
Tall masts of a mirror before the breast of
daylight drive us to the ending shore. The river
will mar my tears, I have become
the snake lolling in the brown grass.
-published in Poetry Offerings.