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In a small white room

At the top of the stairs

There is a view of a river.

The strength of her current is deceptive,

for she merely drifts in the direction

the curving landscape suggests.

She bends her will,

concedes to the earth’s twists and turns.

She is water without wetness.

She is a brain without a body.

She cries in waves as boats

carve along her surface.

She has no voice.