I know a man who thinks
Life is Hard.
It is a hook he
swallowed in school
and now he can’t remember
what the still water
tastes like
under roots
near the lazy bank.
All day and all night
he faces into
the swiftest current
and feels sharp rocks
on his belly,
afraid to move,
afraid to turn,
afraid to look
into the
black mouth
behind him.
Life is hard,
he thinks,
a prison of
solitude and lack,
all fallen,
man and earth.
Nearby, a fawn steps
with reed legs
into the singing river,
lowers her head
and drinks.
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