Beneath the Spanish moss
I can hear a thousand heartbeats
if the crickets are quiet.
They have hearts too, every living thing,
quivering like a leaf in a thunderstorm,
blood whooshing through the vessel
that runs behind the breast bone
to the belly,
beats tripping over beats to that
place where hurt waits to fade.
I lost myself at the river.
I have been lost and found before,
It took forever.