how it is both the river
and the river’s shore,
how we hold it in our hands
like water, but we hold it.
we all start from somewhere:
an action that finds its home in our body,
heart folding around that action
through the discipline of repetition,
desired or not desired,
as we labour with hands or knees
courting the divine,
or some approximation of it
that allows us some certainty,
convinced we are not entirely wrong.
we launch ourselves into the argument
of first and last things;
how language shapes our journey,
the edges of every thing we know
and how we can know each piece
as if existence is a puzzle
we can solve now and forever,
but not our own hearts.
we deceive ourselves.
we look for a place to anchor,
end up a stone’s throw
from where we started:still unsatisfied.