The last river nocturne

It’s not hard to feel the pull of the waters,
how the hours give way to the river,
why the remains float past, beyond our reach.
We know what we are left with:
shadows and husks of shadows –
…but the distances…the silences
the slow movements of the night,
words that started the leaving,

the repeating, the stains appearing
on the walls of our room,
the unreachable sound of a foghorn inside our heads –
…for which part of our lives
has not been spent
like two open boats, drifting down the river
as the mist sets in, while

we call across the water
to keen our abandonment
allowing ourselves ‘How misshapen of me’
‘How misshapen…’ …voices barely connecting,
understanding little of tides or true visibility
the ebbs and flows
the sighs of the currents
the hidden channels
the neglected grotto of the heart.

Charles D.