Hopelessly conformist to any vessel, wavers beneath
the smallest breath, takes on the colours of childhood.
If you try to reason it throws back your image and
withdraws to a depth below the verification threshold even
if its level is low. A wound no two times the same, with
ambition to break sticks and drown stones, not touch
the ground, not shore up foreign investments. Even
in a state of geometrical grace we cannot see time as it
is, only as it passes. So the river shows us while softly
disfiguring our waterlogged bodies on the way to vast
projects of war.
TOUCH
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