This is how high the river got, he said
pointing to the line at my head level
half way up the door frame

This rising above which I hold my head
Marking its climb in lives bright line's end
and the thrashing about of my protests

These slashes and the abruptness of missing
Limbs of my life, upon which I have clambered
thinking them permanent turned out other

Time is a razor working tirelessly at trimming
away everything to make room for everything
and I am just these lines moving out of sight