The Creek.

Memory lane is not a paved street

It’s a creek. In the nature of night that we claim

Thick, dark, mud lines and makes the bank

Trees on all sides, the creek runs through us all

The fugitive breathes heavy among the salamanders small

The same ancient amphibians watch the kid who cries

Her tears join the waters, running between the toes of the new humans as they cross oceans in their minds

It is the creek which babbles to keep us awake

And the bed which carves our path to away

In the back of every head ever heard there is healing in the stream

The homo sapien memory bank is not for wealth but well-being

The creek begins at midnight and ends when we are better

Listen for the moon and the water when you enter.