Torn water, like the curtain to your sanity,
mends itself, needing no silver needle
to pierce the satin skin or blue or gold
or purple binding thread, for the guileless mouth of
the river will always swallow what you give it,
digesting precious metal as easily
as the core of an apple or the
scattered seeds of an overhanging willow tree,
and offer only ripples, like the curious
brainwaves of the mad, that sit with arched backs
on the decking, knitting sacred prayer-mats
off tangled cones of yarn, station after station.
When it’s mirror-calm, you will see the reflection
of your fallacy, for this still water
holds no answers; it is not living, and
cannot judge you, or return anything to you.
But if determined dredging finds no bridge exists
in the holy text, you will find one here,
next to where you purposely let go –
at Jesus Green, where the past lies in the sand and silt –
and if your heart so desires, you can walk across
and forget the loss of your beautiful dust,
the heavenly configuration
that could never ease the disturbance of your soul.