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pointing to the mirrored river
we wait and the water
confuses everything

barefoot, choosing flower after painted flower
we use the crushed ink to write letters in winter

the distance grows, the river murmurs
light scatters from it paler and paler
and the flowers dry near a melted candle
with a small bitter flame that sputters

there is no more than accusation now
here, when she was here, then
when my heart in the open air
beats a moment
a second
before
this little girl sat in a box on the floor
and i pulled her around

now, much later, there, probably somebody sings