The water nearing the ledge leans down with
grooved speed at the spill then,
quickly groundless in air, bends
its flat bottom plates up for the circular
but crashes into irregularities of lower
ledge, then breaks into the white
bluffs of warped lace in free fall that
breaking with acceleration against air
unweave billowing string-maze
floats: then the splintery regathering
on the surface below where imbalances
form new currents to wind the water
away: the wind acts in these shapes, too,
and in many more, as the falls also does in
many more, some actions haphazardly
unfolding, some central and accountably
essential: are they, those actions,
indifferent, nevertheless
ancestral: when I call out to them
as to flowing bones in my naked self, is my
address attribution’s burden and abuse: of course
not, they’re unchanged, unaffected: but have I
fouled their real nature for myself
by wrenching their
meaning, if any, to destinations of my own
forming: by the gladness in the recognition
as I lean into the swerves and become
multiple and dull in the mists’ dreams, I know
instruction is underway, an
answering is calling me, bidding me rise, or is
giving me figures visible to summon
the deep-lying fathers from myself,
the spirits, feelings howling, appearing there.
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