Watershed
I was taught young that my veins stretched out along streams
and eventually flowed out to sea.
In school they showed us how our wrists map the lines of water
that run through the city.
If every river meets the sea eventually
I suppose it makes sense how
the water lilies have tangled me
in wave rumbled longing,
and it could only be
that these palms, stained by the balmy blues of bending creeks,
would be reaching to touch the wind whipped shores
of foam and forgiveness.
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