The tub composed wholeheartedly of distilled aquamarine scents
sits in that curve of my intellect.
Rivers—thick streams—wind the untamed path before two tamed feet.
Traveling upstream is not an option, nor will it be ever.
This battle leads to future glories.
Wading—waist high—far above the ground I linger.
My bearded chin dips seven times, like Communion bread dipped in divine wine.
I am waiting to move, waiting to sail.
The terse air moves not even a broken, amber leaf off distant trees.
Sweat drops through my wide-open pores, falling aimlessly to this spinning earth.
New seasons take heed to the old.
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