River

you ask the ripples beneath your feet dangling 

menacingly above the water, 

reflecting tempting light from above, 

shit. wasn't it just halloween? 

maybe the blue tit hears your plea -  

perhaps he, in his daily struggle, has forgotten

where he lives or who he loves.  

perhaps he looks so longingly at the pool below.  

i wish i could be drunk up by the dirt 

you whisper into your cold hands,  

they shake partly from the autumn breeze but mostly from  

holding up your body, pressed into concrete ground.  

the blue tit looks with pity on your raw and bleeding palms while the flower, 

in her sorrow,  

seems to weep amid the calm  

beside the water you cannot see beyond

for lack of trying. 

and still the white-pink stretches low over the field  

never ending, always inches out of reach.  

how glorious the blue tit's flight above the water, without the faintest flicker  

of uncertainty, or fear. for him,  

the inches close in seconds.

clench your fist in one fluid motion  

over and over again,  

but the light is fading