Lotus

I wonder what the rivers have made of you —
if you still see their boats in your sleep, like
so many long lines of light that kept you up
at night — I wonder if it’s made you kind, or
the kind of man who wouldn’t fear such depths,
or something more — something less. I wonder
if the oceans have you breathing salt back
to those at home who think they love you,
but know so little of love, or you, or the things
your hands can do — I wonder what the tide
has washed up in you — if my memory comes
like glass, so soft and smooth, you forget the
sharp of my tongue, the blood it would bloom
that rose to the top like most things do.
I wonder what this drought has done to you.

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