Proof

Dear Z, it's light that makes the river flow, or

seem to flow. Efflorescence skipping from crest to

crest as though it were a school of tiny fish

And disappearing beneath a bridge. A bolted,

welded, seconds-long eclipse and then they flicker

back again.

They're harder to count than stars. More subject

to vagaries, fancy, the weakness of belief. Are

they matter

Or do they depend on matter's movement. The hardly

more substantial lifting them and losing them in

troughs. Most of the time

I think like this. Unsure what can exist without

an imprint. My reflection stutters in the windows

of a speeding train and then I'm looking at a

field of sheep

Black-faced and lazily intent. The glimmerings are

flecks of time. I can't decide whether they are

truly in the moment or moments out of time,

essence or deviation from the path.

There's no conclusion here, no resolution myth.

Things rise up and fall away as if they never

were, rise up again. I think of them as my

credentials, proof of who I am.

I like the dancing light, the scattered cloud, the

river that lies potentially between its banks, the speeding train. I reach for them. They reach for

me.