Niagara Falls

The Falls are sluggish as Jupiter, the formless unfurling,
rocks jutting out imitating the broken spears of our tribes
who tried to subdue what we saw as a roaring beast
because we did not like its imperfect face
pocked with contradictions which we wanted so maddeningly to love.
Stroke after stroke, braids, colourless as the blind,
and a mute tongue which says to all of us,
this is where we belong, in our loneliness.
We are helpless against the unstoppability of the flow.
We see it fall and we hope to be children. This will save us,
we say, because falling was nothing then and
we recall no loneliness, even as its vague mist touched
down on our feeling skin, saying, this is your soul spreading
into the oceans that you are, the skins of pale and black surf,
riverveins, and between them unmovable boulders,
which might be hearts, and not quite impenetrable yet, if only,
against the current, we could lift them.
There are paths into ourselves like this, vanishing, carrying light.
There are falls that take us to a mist we nearly feel.

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