How can a river manage such rocks?
When all of our bullshit is reserved
For those who would control us?
Still, there's this delta and this port,
Where happy traders whistle
At the gold upon the waters,
What never felt a thing as it was
Lifted to value. Its entire focus,
As it resisted the force,
Was to keep what it was —
Its small germ of value — intact,
To itself, away from the flow.
