August 10


The old woman saw multiples
of color in the river braids.

White more so, he said, sitting by. There,
like stitching needles under the birds.

Hearts, she said. I saw a man glide
mist-like, bearing his red muscle across the river.

You wont see his prints in the mud
where frogs thread through the weeds.

Like many beats snapped in a moment, decades’
worth of longing on this hot river, so bright.

How the heart ages, she said, assembles
out of blood, like a snow orchid.

If you pass here again, listen for his going
over water and close your eyes to the wild sun.

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