My toes point north
And slightly west.
I try to release the river,
But it is tenacious.

An early spring,
A knife in the back —
These the circumstances
That conspire against intention.

And all the misplaced, unwanted
Collect there–
Would take a month of hard labor
Just to raise it an inch from the bottom.

And I don’t have it in me–
The walk or the work–
So I point my toes north
And slightly west.

How can spring be so sad?
I should let this river go,
But, like I said,
It’s tenacious.

I created this fictional fuel,
And all these words went to the water
And looked in to a reflection distorted
By the constant movement of thin hands.

If it were not forbidden,
I would send them to you,
These feathers
And papers.

I would set feet and hands in motion,
And cross wood with steel to make more
Of vegetable and mineral —
The chemistry of sustenance.

And, maybe, in sustaining you
I might reach it,
That deep water,
And slow the inevitable decline.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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