What the Water Does
Calls all smaller bodies:
all springs, rills,
rivulets it calls
even your body, your sweet wet body,
for nothing can stay locked
in land, harbored and pre-determined.
Even the far, far away
feel the rise and fall,
the side to side, the fast-pitched
rotation, the saturate planet’s intention
to tide you over
again and again, to lap up and tongue
smooth
what still hangs so resolutely sure, the sufficiently uninvolved
or insufficiently moved, the hardly a harvest
and joyless maturation:
all undone by the water.
And it will leave you
the cleanest fossiled beachy thing,
to be found as you go walking
some morning alone,
and you will carry it home in your pocket and into your house,
and when the lights go low,
it will make float
around you things you thought had been gone,
and each night,
the place where you make
your customary bed
will move
more and more.
