Late summer and the river has run dry in its bed.
Cracked like lips with fever,
drawn taut under the indifferent sky
a void has risen imperceptibly above the banks,
as the vapors of the afternoon dance off,
whirling around into it like stellar gases
collapsing on a black hole.
Uninterested, mute and aloof the sun
blind to the vortex slips dangerously near.
the seemingly unconcerned
of the afternoon
bleeds axioms and inferences
all over its colorless horizon
as the river
considers better of itself
in presuming to call it a day,
splinters the suppositions
and plods towards certainty