Current

I rummage through the majesty of the mundane,
the water babbling between my fingers,

the creek bed pacing out its portion of river,
holding me back from the cement by a few meters

on either side. I roil the rhythms of earning
and eating, looking up to enjoy the grass by its green

(the unused part of the sun's generosity, the wisdom
it wastes)— or I begin among the haste of buildings,

the people who are wise to the need to forget
those other places, as we count our hungers and toil

our time, and sift our sounds behind our eyes,
and push our bodies past our bodies, trying

to patch together our own ways of believing, while
the water keeps leaving, and the creek bed,

wherever we stand, stands still, ready to hold us
against a moment with more than meaning.