I am hovering above myself
As though my existence is a circle
Painted on borrowed beach sand
Drawn by sticky fingertips
On someone else’s reality,
Its oily prints trailing a whole universe
Upon a silent sky.
The white-veined river runs
Through ancient stems and
Webbing through our planet
Like frothy falls spinning lives
From autumn rain, and spitting leaves
Into black lakes.
It stops neither here nor there,
Mapping givers and takers
And leaving debris from storms
In its wake.
It has no destination other than itself,
And does not mind the eroding of mountains,
Or the taking of careless lives.
It leaves little for space and time,
And plunges happily back
To its own beginning after lapping
A life-time on its origin.