Even at night the water is falling:
a steady sweep now over

the edge — white on black,
like forgotten linen on the line,

it slides past moon faces on wet rocks
crisp upon the plunge of earthy pool

below…

Meanwhile, we sleep,
dreams rolling as dice on their sides

in strange distillation of
our living… Still,

the water drops pouring sheet
over sheet impregnating with voice

the sky:

bright, clean proclamations
of force and frailty, of what shifts and stays,

the stillness of movement
in calm indifference to circumstance or time.