DECLINATIONS

DECLINATIONS

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.