presence

presence

every time

five minutes 

too late, 

making it up as I go. 

take for granted

the mercy of 

forgotten dreams, 

those imaginary intimacies 

I can't explain;

only

love in 

the form of fruit 

I eat

standing over the sink, 

pulp slipping 

from my clasped hands,

if I close my eyes 

long enough 

I can see 

the wisps of seeds

returning home--

down the river, 

at the mouth 

of the pipes,

all the silt 

we shed.

 

life continues,

beyond the peripheral,

in the softness 

of the riverbed

and we may be late, 

but we are still here.