Riverbeds

The water happens by here.
It’s water. It’s a liquid.
It builds up and spills downhill.

Some of it evaporates.
Or thaws. Or returns as rain.
It’s water. You come to us

With your faiths and your proverbs,
Your philosophical verse,
And here we are, water-scoured

And channeling more water,
But you only want to sing
About the river. As if

Rivers were paradoxes,
Things that exist as themselves,
Stable ropes of mystery.

But the beds define the space.
When do you hymn riverbeds?
No, it’s always the water.

You’re mostly water yourselves,
Fish four-hundred-million years
Removed from water, but still,

Mostly water. No wonder
You think the river’s the thing.
It’s the bed that talks and sings.