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.
