Imperfect

The river
carries all there is:
we meet, and we part
each time like the first.

As riptides
wrench the roots
we hang on to the clutter
looking to tape back who we were.

Flow rushes
ahead; patterns
zoom in and out from
the inside of cracked eyes.

Against streams
we wade. To lull and
forget – if for moments –
is providence of a human heart.

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