Hobbled on my
home boulder in the river
no sane person above the baby level
does. As the fine-grained grids
rub together, I –  
sprinkled out
a species refined as
pink salt.
 
By
the water flows.
By: a little fingertip
a red toe. Dip and
dip, bringing up
drippingly forged seconds and
eventually
a finger, pointing
 
at the falls a small way on.
Between their near horizon
and distant roar
is the nothing
time
towards which the gloss  
of direction invents
everything’s loss.