subtext

Exhaustion digs deep, traces

the muscle’s edge. The slow

curve bends into bone; until

even thought wears like water

washing along a shore, reshaping

contoured relations. Memories

detach and drift free, dandelions

alighting on a stream, pocking

the surface in random patterns.

Yes, one cannot exist in the same

river twice; yet, time drapes

residual traces, like debris

within a sieve. A mish-mash

of moments remain, no less

of time than the way willows

sigh their tired branches into

the creek’s slow meander

are a part of the day’s flow.