King of the River

Not everything is here, temporality, the cartography of seven golden earths, standing still on the back of my hand, muscles, aching river beds. This king, frigid, firm. Tenderness, fingers finding secrets in the darkness. This isn’t the first time I’ve been listening to the edges of dreams, infinity pool over river flooding, trains constraining bridges, my complete support for sturdy backing. Fingers tender and aching for time to set it all free.