What the Nighttime Said

Comes to me while I’m sleeping.

Whispers into my ear

a plaintive singsong:

“Moving water never grows stale.”

So I begin to kick my legs.

This wakes my partner up.

What are you doing? She asks.

Just flowing, I say.

You’re fidgeting. Be still.

Very well.

Sweet Thames (East River), run softly, till I end my song.

 

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