I try to exist in two phases:
the barrier is constancy

of motion. It is not
for action I cut the plane

with a fiberglass blade,
not for momentum,

a current pulls along
in any state, even

without me,
the boat will float

even in pieces, even
beyond.

The first barrier is waiting.
Or is it wanting?

Every night
is a river running

and I am a shadow,
a dry-sider,

trapped on the surface
of everything.

The banks unseen
but sensed

as with sleek
mammals that slink

under the water,
back current,

eddies, telling slips
of the tongue.

Things sink:
cool air, wisps

of mist, glints
of eyes, watching,

reflective. Or are they
reflexive?

The later, the louder
the water. Or the latter.