clear

i sit at the river,
watch the sky over time
fill and empty itself of color,

a cycle of wheels,
turning white,
seasons and days
confused for the sake of the other.

the blue sheet of day pulls back,
night emerges,
having always been there,
holding sleep in its distance.


the night sky is cold and scrubbed,
thin stars interpreting their separation,
an emptiness, necessary,
for the clarity,
the constellation
suddenly surfacing from the void,
that always eventually comes.