the Rivers,
the great waters who roam,
between the fingers and the toes,
those who fill your cups and pails,
and who prod and poke the lazy rocks,
to goad a primal impotence to move,
wasting their Time in daft mockery;

everyone has seen those Rivers,
in the movies and the politics,
and the memories of books
and all the poetries of the world

But Acheron, Phlegethon,
Styx, and Cocytus:
no one remembers those,

those Rivers,
who, like dancers, lose themselves
and follow the broken spaces,
mirrors as sharp as what once shattered
until a merciful Sun opens his broad arms,
that Great Magician of the Sky,
to cast those rivulets to breath and wind,
as to dust that scatters off to nowhere,

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