white morning, plants growing, we are two small dark figures-
just a different set of shapes casting smaller shadows
than the other species, but we still steal the grass' light
or just grind it down beneath bare feet - toes staining green.

we practice making the sounds of the river - can we contain
them all? if we move our tongues slowenough, but not so slow
as to sound like the leaves or rose petals dying on the stems
- they fall from sickness, so we let their last words be their own.

now we are in the river moving holy water with our
hands now we are in the river moving holy water with
our hands now we are in the river moving holy water

and our hands move as in dreams - water striders waltz above them:
tiny insect christs with the same black souls as you and i
who stare breathless with us at the wild iris in the fields.

Moi, j'avais jamais rien dit. Rien

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