Hope

I saw all of this before.
I arrived here.
The unwashed river,
Opening with my finger,
Seasoned with bike chains, worms,
My mother’s eyes.
Fleshy molds.
Ditches of greying water,
Almost lovely, that
The body must,
It must.
Be the outline of the soul,
Anchor, calloused by
Loosen. stumble, and grab,
Holy river,
Filthy with constant hope.

9/2/17 – New Hamburg, ON

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