a scribe filling pages
with ink from the deep sea, papyrus paper, a table with a candle
lit, spilling wax to its wooden planks.
and firemen they rush into
buildings covered gray with chalky soot like moon rocks like
rocks falling everything falling
or everything pushed,
or lost, stolen. the ink is thick and clear, invisible, but it
sinks in and wets the pages, like salt water laps into tributaries,
putting minerals back into stones, sinking oil into wells,
sending lightning into clouds, and clouds to mist, to darkness,
the firemen are standing
by the river.
in threes and fours they are pointing, looking. facing the river,
some dive in.
the water is golden light. it is the only time the ink is visible,
and the firemen can see it, we can see it.
rivers forget, or the rocks
"go this way, no that
until the rivers decide,
and then, no matter what,
the river is always against the rocks, always,
the river is singing:
"a rock is not a stone.
a stone is not a rock."