More Than a River, Less Than a Brook

It is felt in the pit of the stomach,
by the palate,
beneath the sky
and above the surface of the cobbles,
in the hollows of the steps,
like a tide rising in the forehead.

It catches hold
of the back
and creeps
toward the neck
in little scurrying steps.

It bends, turns and rolls up
the trouser legs and the sleeves.

And the orderly life
rearranges itself. Alive.

It changes colour.
The warmth of the pulse.
The taste.
The rasp of breathing.
The taste of saliva.
The swallowing.

The sweaty hand dries
The grimace of a concrete smile
crumbles into sand
over the stones
The eyes remember
how a river is made
of tears,
pain
and happiness.

The footsteps start
at the memory of being alive.