The river smells of ghosts again.
Sometimes we worry
They’re our own —
That this rambling
Is bringing us
To no good end.

Was a time
We were strong
And settled.
Now all is expectation —
And we must trust
To take on
What defenses
Can no longer manage.

And we should be so lucky.
That something might happen
To break the intensity
Of this day-to-day.

But this loneliness we looked for
We celebrate
The dark and the dead,
And can wish
It were otherwise —
But know
You will never find us here.

And the answers
Are just dust —
Something to be found out
And cleared away.

About Emily

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

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