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Returning home from 2 weeks in the rivered woods with women, wilding.

Can water be thirsty? Extended dry sheafs of skin out, downward grounding the bones, the burrowed sought surface for dousing: cold stream of river poured onto my crown from 5-gallon buckets.

I was so thirsty. I needed the love like a sponge and under I bloomed. Sweet drops, we had hydration stations we called Love Circles. Blew up the waterboards–reversed the grooves layed into our early plastic minds.

Can water be thirsty. Can the sun seek for warmth. Can the moon draw its breath all in, along with the light, crinkle in on itself, refusing to reflect, refusing to mirror.

I miss the quiet.

There was a woods of Scotch Pine, a triple-spiral labyrinth, clay mugs of tea. Bare feet, everywhere. Elastic garments.

Back in the city now, my heart thirsts for heart.

The river wasn’t thirsty until yesterday. When she sat squirming on a vinyl bench, in tight jeans, with the commotion of machines all around. Keys jangling in pockets, rattling around fingerbones. Evidence the absent things, all locked up.

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Poet and Tarot Reader, specializing in Water Cartography
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