Bruce Springsteen sings "We go down to the river, and into the river we dive" on my drive home from work. When I get home I step into the river of stones and feel my toes get warm here, or cold there, and my other senses are tweaked as I read the words of strangers and I sit on the teak bench and feel its pressure against my capacious flesh and my shoulders drop as I stare at the screen and my lower back starts to ache. The river tugs at me, but I just wrote a poem about abjectivity that has been buzzing in my head for a couple of days instead.
I want to dive into the river but today I forgot my swimming costume and my mind is still sloshing abjectness around and I cannot skinny dip today. But I will keep standing here on the bank and maybe tomorrow I will have a perfectly observed stone.