The modern waterfall

it is forever eliding

Systematically, it descends, dull yin and no foam

mist, drips, splashing, roar

and no chaos at the mezzanine

It is toothy smooth limestone climbing, the black plastic brush flowing downward,

equally (we measured)

departing from eachother, neither stagnant, 

as we move on it: no, we are not cogs, but standing on them.

The process is magnitudes weaker than the smallest wave

trickling up a slanted beach

in a cove where nothing remarkable happens

The escalator, as usual, is dividing downward,

making its pattern of sound 

hardly analog, more a computer generated houndstooth

or cable knit, or herringbone. Cable, tooth, bone.

An object translated into a pattern

spun and coiled and wrought by hand and loved!

Exalted! Given to the machines, to see if they can do it

for us

And they can, and they do it so neatly.

The wave, sucks back down into the belly of the next

which is larger, carrying coarser sand up to settle in a stripe


like a hand knit thing

or a desktop background! Mine is a grassy field, dense anemones of wild, tall tassled grasses in a valley among some hills. 

There is a green mown road, a distant figure in a white shirt, a barn obscured by the thin, even mist. It appears messy and blowing. It appears to have just one tiny corner of sky. It appears to be dusk, and the grass suffuse with a lush mysterious welcome.