COLD IS THE RIVER

Cold is the river if I swim, and death is now
reaching the bone. Cold is the past,
and it is slowly seeping from our wisdom and our homes.
If nothing is a bad feeling about how elusive they are to me,
then I’d rather sleep.

All the king’s horses fall—all he was to do
was stand in, and now with no way out,
he spontaneously began to hide. I visit his grave;
in the enjoyable times, I can’t help but think
about the same strokes and his salute to me.

Cold is the slowness of homes,
and death is now thinking about me.

(May 31, 2011)