reunion

I am thirsty. The trees wave against the wind
in protest. We wait by the river for the unknown.
If we sit in silence long enough, dropping twigs into
the moving thought of water, the final mystery of the
universe will unfold and calculate into us, invading our blood
like the green ghost of absinthe down your ear. Our skin
is pressed flat against the sun like a brother's hand
on a daughter's shoulder. We wait by the river
for sleep to take us into the quiet forest.

She does not come!
She will not come.
Not for us.

You catch a flickering secret and put it in my hand,
the gold-filament wings and blue-glass eyes.
I hold its weight in my palm, brush a finger against
the burnished red exoskeleton, and let it go.
It could not last away from the river.
The leaves crackle and I imagine a fire.