Push away this river.

I would push away this river
that splits and pierces my side.
A crest that mounts
my shallow cliffs,
and drives a fallen branch
towards the sudden grave,
where I clutch some smooth
rocks with hands that squeeze
and move and turn to
marble white as stones
mark precipitated edge; where
swollen in the over-wash:
hands in the rinse beside
the risen banks of the
ruddy waters, their's blood
in the eye and stone in the heart.
Made that day, an ironic fool,
marking his own grave where
branches he made, broke off.