the next shore

The river bends slowly
The river inhabits the night
with its quietest voice, speaking a lazy urgency
with its quietest companion, the night sky,
dark and heavy like disappointment
dry and flaked mud encrusting my hands
I listen, but hear no promises at the furtive shore,
I listen with my petrified limbs, but see
no palliative hut for shelter
no fruit tree to feed the pause
it is the stream that speaks
it is the lumbering flow that begs my surrender
do i wish for some death-like rest
do i hope for a flood to do my work for me
am i a slave to the force in my hands
am i a slave to the blood in my veins
am i wanderer or king
am i stranger or friend
I breath, and breath, and breath
I breath and fall, and am borne toward that next shore