The River Dragon

The water goes. I go. This has always been the arrangement. Some mornings a feeling arrives like a word in a language I used to speak. I hold it the way water holds light, which is to say: briefly, which is to say: it was never held. The river does not ask where it has been. It is stupid to think that a river speaks. Nor do I ask. There was something once. I am almost certain. The body remembers the way stone remembers water. by the shape of what is missing. Which is stupid. No stone has anything to remember. There is only the current. Only the morning after the morning. Only nothing, which is not nothing. Just the river, which is just me: coming and going. Coming and going. Coming and going.