we do not kneel

if helplessness would be her music she’d be a composer
her wrinkles would form but a straight line you’re willing to touch
the rivers to swim through the universe empty and frozen
and coast lines are shattered too much

if craving for humankind would be a sport she’d be champion
but tracks would consist of pure turbulence, buckle your belt
the rides she was usually taking weren’t featuring ramping – 
they always demanded she knelt

this journey’s indeed never meant or expected to please her:
the salmons who do dare to leap necessarily drown
there’s constantly next little gravel that’s seldom been easy
that’s always been taking her down

this hanging and holding to air, all this hovering, floating
by threads that are strong, as if someone is holding her tight,
have nevertheless made her think that her powerful coating
is made of mature chrysolite