The Only Thing
from here this river thinly
mysteriously ever seeks
never returns refuses it's only sea
where water once rose crashing over huddled
dunes low clouds now torture remaining ruins
of light failing collapsing onto some unknown
piercing gulls glide into an impossible silence
rest in rows or maybe
sleep in the low moan ache
of moving reeds
tickle of the coldest sky
in this all longing becomes
the only thing becomes the
what of this
whatever
else
JP Pestana
The Only Thing
December 31, 2024 revised
