"I need to survive by a faint river.
I need a stream by which to, much longer,
Survive. The sounds of things that aren't alive,
Obeying the dictates of the forces
Enumerated as such and combined,
These are the murmurings of poetry
In the ear of the perishing poet."
A party past the valleys the hunger
Surprises itself by tenacity.
It had not intended itself to be
So ineluctably single-minded,
But every night found it drooling in moons
Of fang-slivered sleep. The stream reminded
Dreams of a time when water was enough
Or of times when little more than water
And sun was. Now, a dark world contorting
Itself in the high, dry inland of sleep
Imagines the water rushing under
Wants to escape to a leisurely home.
Water imagines nothing. Strange liquid.
It expands as it grows cold and languid.