She leads him down between walls of water.
The pattern of their steps, sooner or later, will make
the shape of a hare. This might take the rest of his life.
Her song is of falling water, of bare night. Saltwife,
she leads him to where light breaks across the flood.
Their other selves are here, shaped and shed by water,
boneless, shadowless, mouths agape as if in grief, as if
in prayer; in a new understanding of grief and prayer.
A slow press of sorrow is building at his back
like bad weather: chances lost, love as token, the waste
of days. It is a place of narrows and steeps, of rising mist.
Now she has hold of him, and leads him down.
