Laws of Conservation
Does the river, after it’s come apart, still hold the drowned hand’s tremble, still reach for sky or branch or oar? Delicate sweat of a delicate hand, tease of hair before the rope makes its fist— music, time, whiskey flower and decay. Night is an open mouth. Breath minnows the water, whispers leaves as if through lace to some forbidden ear. Maybe the trees remember that fruit, the water its dew- washed down. Maybe water could return that skin’s last itch to the lips that glisten behind the ear. Wish of every silence, every sigh, breath that’s passed, that’s passing—that pleasure hangs forever. Memory, is anything this cruel?