Slipping Through My Fist
I have drifted down a ways along the shoreline,
I just watched these ropes give way
where they were tied.
I could have reached out quick when the ropes first
slipped, if I had tried,
but I was wondering where the wind was trying to take me
overnight, if I never did resist, and
what strange breezes make a sailor want to
let it come to this,
with lines untied, slipping through my fist.
It is downhill, all the way to the ocean,
So of course the river wants to flow.
The river’s been here longer,
It’s older and stronger and knows where to go.