Alison Pick - the good life

The skinny slick of fame dries up: a relief, a betrayal that’s welcome.
Head to the valley and sit by the fall of the stream getting over itself.
The other shore’s close, but walled off by water. You’re wanting a glimpse,
brief apparition; a memo from absence in its black hand. Squint across
at a shape in the aspen: it doesn’t fill the form of deer. It scales the glade
in front of your mind and freezes, disappearing. Force yourself to stay
cross-legged, night spilling ink through the grass. A chill settles over your arms.
Something makes its presence known, like piano-notes moving
through a dark church—a single hand travelling, slow, up the keys.
Silence right after, the deafening kind, the river’s pool slick
with the stillness. A tail breaks the surface. Thought
ripples out. You sit until blackness fills all the blanks—
the far shore ripped out like a stitch.