Wednesday, November 2, 2011

you walk over the bridge
early fall, leaves curled and dry as the air
that falls between us,

between us is a river
that rises
before the storms
and recedes
during the rain
that cannot satisfy the thirst we have,

the thirst we have
leaves our throats
in empty mugs
we put to our lips
in case we have anything interesting to say
after the rain
on the bridge
staring down to the slick rocks and mud
where watered flowed
an hour ago.

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