Life is a river:
a coarse sieve
a downturn queue of rocks that dwindle
to cross,
a hanged innocent
pendulating the time.
In the river everything simulates water.
everything
relentlessly erodes, softens
and ceaselessly loses crudeness of mass
to turn like sands,
to pour
through the hourglass throat
of “this moment.”
Life is again like fire:
an uphill flow of burn that moths
ceaselessly grind against
to doff
the dress of the substance
in order to
break free.
