On Narcisse Berchère
The Colossi of Memnon at Thebes, 1868
The water will come up under your feet
in every sun where the soul spills its soil.
You will sink by inches for centuries.
If you are sand, you will mix into mud.
The swamping, its fish and geese, its
grain, will dizzy you with death, speak
of when all was sea. You wait huge
with your watching for a flood so deep
it will ease the weight of your witness
and rip away the residue, since you
can’t stop what you’ve seen. So few
stay drowned enough to dream
their joy in the ruin of the river.
like from Proto-Indo-European
which used to be called Aryan
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