You'll see me when the tides roll out,
in a heavy downpour
at the heart of the spout.
Catch me in the grave of pine,
trees like tombstones,
roots in my spine.
Follow me past the end of the page,
till the ink bleeds out
and you fray with age.
I'll wait beneath an august sky,
my heart will be wet,
yet unthirstably dry.