Hymn.
Dear river, dear creek, dear dammed tributaries, dear fuse,
dear dynamite and wet match, amen.
The water don't love me, and she don't love me,
and maybe I'm drowning from the inside.
Who put the river in my arm said, don't let the water.
Maybe the knife got a hard kiss and a sweet bite.
Maybe the knife only metal and wood and a bit of brass,
but maybe it know how to love the inside of me.
Maybe I don't believe in meaning, in God, and plans,
and paths, and the closer I am to my animal self,
the more human I am, the more I let
myself break like a wave, ocean in my arm,
stone in my arm, iron, and wood, and brass in my arm.