Probability

You feel like you had fallen asleep with your head on the scolding river-bed rocks.
Water over you.
Water within you.
Weeds around your ankles and an old
white pebble clutched in your creasing fingers.
Decades of comatose Time has washed over you,
swallowing every inch of your human skin. Stirring, selecting
scalpel-ing  every
mililitre of your human memory. Now with the water over and
the water within, they have all dissolved - the sunsets and the silver and the
socks. They have all dissolved into memories
of memories.
Perhaps you are a memory.
Perhaps you are water. Perhaps
you are memory doused in cold river-water.
Perhaps you are.
Perhaps.