He was standing alongside the bank, hat in hand, eyes lost
to the movement and the glare of stunning sunlight, hearing immersed in the hiss
and trickle, splash and gurgle, the lapping up onto smooth river stones.
There was something floating by, a shape I’d seen
in dreams. It drifted along until it reached the soft pink
smooth inside of a conch shell, too big to be held, too big
to be blown. Caught in the eddy
it swirled there until my eyes opened.
Who was he, and why had he come again? And where
was his place on the chessboard of my life?
I don’t understand what it is
the river brought me. I only know he said
nothing, he said so much.