The creek has burst its banks
scoured out strange shapes in the rocks and the soil
and I’m sitting in the path of the flood
immobile as it reaches my chin, my mouth, my nose
breathing in its silted flow
I saw you atop the tor
standing alone on that stony outcrop
and I won’t climb and die
on that hill
but I’ll drown in this tide
My lungs have filled with wet sand and cement
and with desolate resolution I sit
amidst the rising torrent, this inundation
of sticks and stones and the begging for mercy
The scavengers have already come to pick clean my bones
and I see you atop that mountain
that I cannot climb, where I cannot die
not on that hill
but I drown in this tide

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