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