Pebbles, leaves, rain—
they disappear into the river.
Even the shadows of the black branches above
(their bark peeling like thick burnt paper) disappear.

But we don't disappear:
Not into the breeze: it brushes
against the pale sides of our arms
(rustle of dry leaf against wood, quick suckle
of an inhale, cool shearing of cracks)—

Granted, this is not a world that keeps us.

Granted, there are some sadnesses
in which I do not long for God.