i’ve seen three geysers erupt
one in reykjavik, the backdrop a glacial terrain
another in Yellowstone, that faithful one
the third came from my mother’s gut
I asked to keep
the lights off—
and in the pitch black
you pulled me in
This river is a living thing, ice in chunks moving toward me, pulling me into
its mutable monotony--always becoming what it was without ever being the same.