The Path

The river is blue-black,
bubbling with whitecaps,
running downstream like me.
Lean ducks land
in the water's lean hand
while underfoot dry sticks snap.
There seems so little fire
under this brief pot,
but at least out here
the fat burns
and the flame licks higher
into a grey blue day.

I kick up little stones on the path
as I and the path meander.
I rub the ground like a low cloud
I exhale the last of ire,
rub my heart with sweet cinders.