The Last Word On Nothing

if you are thirsty

for water but not

water

remember

all the places that say

its shape.

*

the river confluence

of your palmlines

*

the tributaries of

cracked leaf

held to light

*

the braiding-in streams

of antler, dropped

at autumn’s bend into

winter:

water, shed.

*

and if you are cold, in that way

that craves no heat,

it’s like this with flame, too

the paintbrush, a grassfire

sparking-lit.

*

and if you are lonely, in that way

that craves no company

look to a mountain couloir

open

like a book to read

open

like spread hands

inviting the last volcanic flare of sun.

*

Original artwork by the author