Feed to me a current so that I may have an adversary

It’ll help carry the bones home when our wars are done

Remembering how we’d dislodged our lives

Torn them clean from the earth

Stolen to ***** cairns too tall to climb

Even for nimble us

Allow me then to stack my bricks up against yours

Measure if you must

They can topple continuously 

Mine were bound to from birth

Build with them a wall against which I can press

In my very own war

Crumble the pieces into a fine powder

To be blown out of hand and spun
 into a wind-turned eye

Call it salt and litter our croplands with it

It is standard procedure

That nothing lives long enough to learn how to mock itself

Watch it slip from your hands 

Watch the line slip from mine

No chance of less slack on my own volition 

Better a contained current in some watery recess
Than a fought one upended in thundering torrents
Better to quell the urge to hurl oneself toward it 

Than to hold taut a line tied to a drowning stone