The Rivers

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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