We are all rivers, you see.
Your own reflection is held by the fish you catch, at breeze point of day. At golden oaks Sunday sun.
At summer’s hold, a the chapel’s bell, heard, prayed, taught that…
THE SAND, fate, a stranded old dog, like myself. At early morning lunch, I hunt at rivers. And so my face washed by the glass like greens of water, watermelon.
We are rivers, this is mine, this is reflected by my memories and my torments.
atoned sinners, contrite heart
A book full of blood, washed up, up to her simmering feet, her lovely, tanned feet. The women I’ll forever hold my service too, and my heart hung at the museum for her, to remember devotion.
unspoils ungrateful, heals the lost.
Like a gun in the down LOW of whiskey barrel
O a gambler sombrero, who drinks sotol at the Pacifico of México. And walks by wine bodegas, not found, not lost, but searching. She somehow found me. By my river, her river, both our. You see, we are all rivers.
TIME is much more valuable, when you sort out your troubles with stories to tell…
