*

You become expert, the stream
embossed :words and your fingertips
are always damp, dragging twigs
archaic phrases and darkness

--you drift, unable --it's always a night
when all the world was water--what you see
this cold stream has already turned to ice
to rock and silence --your ears too

are useless --you begin to wobble
take on seasons --nothing will stay
or swallow the world again :the Flood
no one else can read about.

Your hands drenched, you begin to lift
the drowned, the waterfall, the whirlpools
--you make a fist and read your fingers
are still warm and how the sun
held so tight though some light still escapes
your shadow floats off, the stream
leaving forever and the morning

--you become the warned, each fingertip
from so far, sent off again
just as hungry --dead leaves, old branches
and now that you're alone.

© Simon Perchik