They say the water of the holy river 

Is clean enough now for people to drink. They

Would have us believe that cleansing it

Is actually much more important than 

We think. That the blood in my veins runs

Thicker, that the life it gives burns quicker,

That the trail we leave is slicker than a burst

Oil tanker, more life-giving than the bloodless

Bodies that no longer feed the divine demands

Of the river. Maybe it is. Maybe tributaries

And streams collect our mortal remains, our

Little dirty dreams, immersed in our fossil-fueled

Caves, no unclogged channel that drains our

Over-flowing hearts. That holy river has its own

Source, it doesn’t need our bodies but it asks

Them of us that it may run its course. Death and the

River are reluctantly parted, the more we die, the

Less we understand how all this started. And we, 

Who knows where hope springs, who knows 

What tomorrow brings. All we can see is this 

Water and this blood run together unconsecrated 

In this unprecedented flood.