Water WalkSoham Patel
All the throat songs the gypsies sing. Scratch surface for water in northern deserts. There is a sound in it. Something we could embrace to. I hear it and then forget the weather. Measures between morning and dawn. She is my quenching. Her words run through me like the blood in my veins. Her skin is like a moonlight mirage. She is like the ocean and water stone skim. I’ve been counting gallons and spill for weeks but the numbers are nothing to give repeat and repeat any kind of yawn for dismissal or lack. I see rosy pelicans and remember one of your last lines casts their kin's wings south. And then there are the children who found a crushed animal together and cried. Can the sorrow song be here so that summer ending has all the birds beginning again to remember our laughter and the river and the plant sprouted from the pond shaped like a sweat drop?
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