Domestic Sonnet VII

From The Familiarity

Have we all become riversoft,
edging feet toward oblivion?
The muddied bank blackens toes;
coarse sand leaves bitter grains.
Does the wasp surrender her defiance
knowing she must bruise the fig?
Under the willow eaves
where we first lay down our names,
the sun once told us
we had all we needed.
Now it hurts to remember
and frightens more to forget.
The river keeps its unerring course
moving whether we follow, or not.

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