mist face,
in all the mossy lust of a disregarded statue,
kneels in the mud.
this river is foaming, does not sit still
tangled, fleeting, folds in on itself
bends and tilts between Earth and air
each her own
a current I cannot catch up with
can never hold together all at once
in cupped palms
this river is wavy and free,
is falling all over me
PLUTO BLOOMING 