301 Moved Permanently

301 Moved Permanently


In Love with the World’s Death

Tell me how the day enters.

A river, yes, and on its banks a rat,

Image Credit: Matthew Forsythe

slicked with blood sticking its back

to the gravel, squirming and squeaking

while koi scales shining line the paths:

one orange cheek-plate glints its currency.

The fish, thick muscles of sun, swim under

the ferryman’s boat, flit long tails, half

their faces chewed away and water gaping in.

One sleek otter head streams through,

sun-muscle flapping in its jaws, mouthing its no-sound.

And the night, what’s the night like?

The river rushes full with birds, their beaks open

and eyes open black

and the cold water rushing—

starlings clutter the current, their little pointed tails spiking

the surface like twigs; cormorants flow by choking,

webbed feet splayed.

River of silent wings.

Ducks press cold breast to breast.

The bloated body of a swan sweeps downstream, and

its beautiful neck drags under, slaps thickly on the rocks.

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