Ego’s end




faces see

ego ending by

midnight along the pale river,

stoking churning fires that shrivel, dry and desiccate

the mounded, woven lengths of strand, grasses, flax and young magnolia saplings. The burn

is tended, masked by the tangle of epiphytic nets between trunks and the mesh of hands smudged brown like the loamy depth underfoot.

The congregation sways to layered sound, tonal strata built on a bedrock of river eddies, silt swirling in metered pools between slabs of worn, sunken stone, lapping the shore where the insects purr.

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