Dry the Banks

leaving China

superpowers on the skin
the late traces of what used to fill the river holes
left just on the rocks
the banks of the old white water, still damp but drying
trickle creak water you don't want to hear
to remember the rage of that river
what it is to be caught in the spin
head under feet and smiling at the next hole
storms above the drowning party
the watching eyes from shore
saw the kids throw away their life vests and join hands
standing on the bow
distrust of boats and hope of future in their eyes
they lept, not to be pulled up on those rocks
and dry out like the banks
but to rage on like the clouds they came in with

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