cease.

cease the velvet fantastic abound;
your anguish sun, your dervish call,

cease the speaking. she sang you easy,
that welcome delta spray

sang you easy, down in the river hole
where you knew her. oh flesh hands

where you knew her;

she came bearing dragonflies and skin-sweet
meniscus and the steady gasp of mangroves

and your name.

(afterwards they would say
that sharp fist rhythm was nothing more
than tides, they would say those pipes
were just hope blown over the ear of God—
afterwards, only fishbones would collect
for you under the ocean, and those cold.)

they would never see the silt-ridden daughter
hanging low over the streams, the daytaster

in the flush, the vivid river hand;
they would never name the delta second

to home. never beat to the loam and tide,
never make sustenance a drum. over

and over where rivers fail, they would never
see her cease.
and cease—