I lie on the grass and listen
To the river inside me.
It pulses and churns,
Surges up against the clenched rock of my heart
Until finally it spurts from my head
In a dark jet.
Behind, the clouds swoop and dive
On paper wings, the palace walls grow taller,
Brick by brick, till they rise
Beyond the painting's edge.
The river is deep now and still,
An opaque lake filled with blue fish.
But look, the ground tilts, the green touch-me-not plants
angle away from my body. I am falling.
The lake cups its liquid fingers for me,
the fish glint like light on ice.
Evening. The river pebbles are newborn pearls.
The water rises.
I am disappearing, my body
rippling into circles. Legs, waist, armpits.
My hair floats upward, a skein of melting silk.
I give my face to the river.
The lines of my forehead, my palms.
When the last cell has dissolved,
The last cry of the lake-birds,
I will, once more,
Hear the river inside.