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.

It’s not for momentum
I pull the blade;

a current pulls along 
in any state,
even without me


the boat will float,
even in pieces,

even 
beyond. The banks unseen
but sensed

as with sleek 
mammals
that slink

under the water with back currents,
eddies,

            telling slips 
of the tongue.
            What sinks?


Cool air, wisps of mist, glints 
of eyes,
watching, reflective.

            Or are they 
reflexive?

To exist in two phases,
the first barrier
is constancy of motion.

The later it gets, the louder 
the water.
             (Or is it the latter?)