At the edge of the river, where we sling our feet
alongside the swaying water, I think the words
we say & the memories are a writing on the wall
of a burning cathedral humming alongside a black, crippled Nightingale.
& the ashes make a crown of thorn on my pate.
it’s for the best, right?
I head out toward the river again today
& everything ruin Cascades to throw me a welcome party
where I can swim in a pool that wouldn’t spit me out
to the surface again & I drown with everything I miss.