Evening music washes over me
sung in minor thirds against
starlit strains on the dry riverbed
of Shriver’s Creek
poetry reaches into me though
I stave off her long white arms
with ritual and songlight,
rolls across me like water and
gathers me into her liquid arms

if only I could accept that I
am stone
the river’s bone
instead of laurel reaching
heavenward in glory

if only–
so much blue music in two small words,
six letters whispered prayerfully
beneath the auditorium sky


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