Look and see where the riverbend sings,
and light flows down in torrents,
where air solidifies into asymmetrical butterflies,
and the stone pine crumbles into ash.
You look the other way
and see your face reflected in the
blind man’s mirror, a pebble heart sunk low
into the mud. The riverbed overflows in its grief.
Look once more and find your wildest desires
left to rot in the winter sun,
that is where you’ll find every excuse you ever made
until it was too late – you will never see where the riverbend sings.
Grace Adams
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