I could simply give in
It is morning and I am kneeling
in the river that trembles my hand.
There is flesh in this morning,
the fragile of sockeye, living on
in winter where they should not live.
There is the beat of a hidden heart,
and the river gives and takes a life.
My hands grow ghostly
at the ends of my arms.
The flesh in them will not end today.
The blue-green knowledge
of nothing is: Sitka, cedar and sedge.
As though a coastline makes a difference.
A ragged place of feet in boots and laces
come free. Only the legs keep moving,
scattering salmon that should not be.
Their purpose is as ours: to make
an acquaintance and break
in water the colour of thought.
I could simply give in to making life.
My feet, trembled into nothing,
run red rocks from the basement
of time. They know no other
purpose than striding the Taylor,
the Elk, the San Juan,
any source of knowledge
that is passed to the tree
after it is passed through me.