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Monday, May 19, 2014



Finally able to put my tongue in
the water, the bright coolness
It brings, reassured that there 
Are photographs of the whole thing.

No matter. No one will see it.  It will
Remain hidden, spoken about only
By a few who heard that years ago
Someone had stood up on the hill,
Looked down for a moment and began
The make the descent to the edge
Of the river.  It was always flowing
Too fast to enter, like teeth gnashing
At its bed and swirls of eddies that
Could eat a man in less time than 
It took to imagine what drowning 
Was actually like.  Most who tried
To come to the water simply disappeared
Into myth or legend, a pitiful reminder
All the old tales are.  Not a mention
Of the danger or the weather except 
As embellishments to make the story
Seem more remarkable.  That the journey
Happened was the really big thing.

Tasting the water with the tongue, looking
At the photographs, the wild light in his eyes,
The depth of his stare, we retired to another
Room, heated up some soup, fiddled with the type
For awhile, found some paper, painted some covers
And put the whole thing to bed all the while listening

To that sound time makes as it hurries past an open door.

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