Murky headwaters, streams too brave to sit still.
A fish moves heavily, drunk on taunts of demise.
Today, there is taste to the line-worm.
Lacerated horizon the quicker meal.
dangers buried in clay pots; a potency
of Providence-offered sight in
a living room of thought.
Patrolling unwelcome proximity between
competing aches of shame and loneliness.
Chance builds a bridge.
Love (is it?) fords a stream.
Choice, rushing, floats the river, watching.
Welcome mat at the door of happy reconnaissance(?)
No. Too frail,
unrecognizable against blood-iron door
loosed on hinges of an un-frantic passion –
(the only love worth loving).
Denouement of false desire wrapped tightly
in iron embrace; kiss of an angel king.
Then, when dust drinks rain, at least
it will know it can.