The touch of a lover every in argillite where the trace of a river is remembered
like a wind? Lovers the resignation? Never to forget the catastrophes—
stones, these surrendered sediments in spent floods. Those in this sea of time
interred by the countless dead.
Never to have heaved & embraced the sex of a glacier. Never to have drained—
we, the withdrawn, open, erect, sometimes breathless. Never like a continent?
Can an old earth, ravished by memory, recall no lover like us though we have all
come?
Touched it incessantly?
