It isn’t An Echo

Crevices all, turning into canyons,
Slept streams of dreamy wonder
as ice burnished rock
and back again,
back again.

I thought I heard an echo
but it was only myself
babbling
as I have been wont to do
and in hearing myself
over and over again
I thought
If this isn’t an echo
then why is my own water
conspiring against me?

Crevices all,
ears and mouths,
drooling the stupid spit and waxy leanings
that time doesn’t have time for.
As if hearing oneself was the same thing as
talking.
Isn’t it?
Isn’t it?

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