March Poems, No. 11

The river that walks on me
Leaves its foot tracks on my arms,
It seeps through my flesh,
To become a river beneath my skin.
 
I watch the river's windblown water,
Feels its ripples within.,
The ripples rippled
Like her rippled hair.
 
The river voices that had hid in my feelings.
Speak a language I do not understand.
Its vocabulary is neologisms and dark words.
It is the only reality I've ever known.
 
If  we had lived before man spoke the first words,
We both might have been rivers , flowed into each other.


Copyright © Duane Locke

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