Pebbles, leaves, rain— they disappear into the river. Even the shadows of the black branches above (their bark peeling like thick burnt paper) disappear.
But we don't disappear: Not into the breeze: it brushes against the pale sides of our arms (rustle of dry leaf against wood, quick suckle of an inhale, cool shearing of cracks)—
Granted, this is not a world that keeps us.
Granted, there are some sadnesses in which I do not long for God.
mutatis mutandis, mary szybist