When the river at last has fled its bed

                  we parse the difference between

                                jealousy and envy

                                             & carry curved sticks

                                             pointing nowhere.

Unlike water      we wander    beyond banks.

The damaged world seeps,

           corrodes battery terminals,

                                                      collects cans        far below       in benthic canyons

& as meanings go, was never meant for this

salvation through guilt.        If it can burn, it has         been burning:

this is the nature of fuel,                         which is only ever        one thing

         until it breaks

                                                    into heat,              into light.