Vision of a River

When the azure-streaked heron
Glares into your glassy eyes,
Is it the bass from below,
Or the thudding bass
Of your beating heart,
That reminds you of the valley you score,
Of your purpose:
Hoisting the porpoises up
Enough to kiss the sky when it bleeds out its ashy cry.

The sacrifices of ships canopy across your surface,
Covering your blemishes,
Reducing your ripples
To shiny, man-made substances.
When the heron wavers,
When it scratches your pristine surface,
Do you reduce to grief?
Or do you peer up at the underside,
And wonder how you look
From the other side.

When you stare up at the sun,
Does her smile reflect
In your eyes?

Does her warmth swathe you in a bundle
Of passion?
Encasing your body,
Protecting it from the scream
Of the wind?

Or,

Does her warmth drag across your skin,
Dragging the comfort of the ubiquitous wind
Away from your spiritual embrace?
Does the warmth, the attention, the glisten
Of your skin distract your senses,
Ignorance of within?
Your interior seems colder, now.
You can listen, now, to the beat of your feet,
Mollusks groveling across the floor.

Do you yearn

To learn
Of what lies above the surface?

To revel
In the treading
Of your own limbs:
Is it to sacrifice the attention
Of your kin?

Or,

Is it to breathe in this liquid
That bubbles in your lungs.
To appreciate
That your lungs are not like your kin’s.