the creek

I will roll like a stone along the path towards the creek

one day soon, I tell you,

tumbling in the pebbles and gruff of the unclear Earth,

scrapes on my knees,

a daisy chain around my neck, I will wade in the cool water

of the creek imagining myself

above the overpass, moving fast in the Northern direction.

The minnows will feast

on my toes and the algae will breathe in my sweat,

the condensation of human nature.

I will eat nothing but the grasses, the grasses of the valley,

the airplane food of the plains,

writhing in the simple web of a fishing net, hallucinating

about the bees and the birds

and the fleet foxes, and I will suffocate in the shallow waters

as the empath in isolation;

I will lie ice dripping cold sweat, plucking the seeds

and the berries of my hallucinations.

I will glow pasty white in the April white as white Iverson

drips from the corners of my mouth

down the drain and into the cool waters of the creek.

My burnt pupils will shrivel

in the sand, salt our great equalizer. I will devolve

into chaos of space

and sand and sweat and trickling tumbling stream.

Breathe in the foxygen

and flee in the direction of the car park where

we sat like smoke

on the leather seats and wished the spring would begin

so I could tumble into the creek

and begin to drown in every tomorrow and all the ones

after that.