The river was swollen. There were rocks
covered completely by water. We three stood
by the water. It was too cold for smells.
There is nothing so serious as each instant
occurring right after the last. Only this. Then
this. We unribbon. We peeled back, pulled open.
And from our mouths: sets of words. Laughs
of white breath. The story of a star. We are anything,
except that we are only this: this single minute.
One truth after another. My hands were in
my pockets. The river licked at rocks. All
that liquid, all that thirst. The temperature took
away my toes. I see some people twice a year.
There is a fullness to the sky, an emptiness.