The final piece is our dying.
Not hurried to or gotten through,
Not flinched from though if so
That’s part of it too.
As if the end of the river
Wasn’t a falls or an ocean
But the entire river,
A single word of everything,
Seen and read and taken in.
As if it was its own purpose.
As if we were here to know.
Peter Cashorali is a neurodiverse queer writer living at the intersection of rivers, farmland and civil war.
He practices a contemplative life.
the water and the gills 