jumping into this lake
pulling on the engines of seep and of sand
we are all still wet.

the river on the other side of the mountain tosses
little drops of patience.
i do not catch them.

i look stupidly at nature
failing to see the perfection of such folly


i let a million little poems die tonight.
let them drown at any cost, at any
depth
i need for them to stop moving
tonight;
to not feel
the crimson burning boiling underneath

my heart.Forget my heart.my
heart.