by Dana Levin

    You put a bag around your head and walked into the river.

    You

    walked into the river with a bag around your head and you were

    never dead，

    in your land of scythe¹ and snow——

    game on the banks of your

    mental styx——

    for the double

    audience

    of smoke——

    ——

    You pressed a coin into his palm and stepped across the water.

    You

    stepped across the water with a hand on his arm and he was

    silent and kind as you

    shoved off， toward the smoky coils

    of the greek-seeming dead——

    You‘d been trying to sleep.

    Found yourself here，

    in the mythocryptic land——

    The river

    ——

    had widened to a lake. You were anchored

    in the shallow boat

    by his faceless weight——

    And on the green shore you could see their vapored²

    residue³， how they could

    smell it， those two， your blood‘s

    curl and shade——

    If you

    ——

    slit⁴ your wrist you could make them speak.

    If you

    slit your wrist you might be able to sleep， he‘s

    got a hand on your arm，

    he wants you to see——

    Dead， dead：

    he wants you to see.

    Ferryman， Sandman， head

    a featureless

    cloud——

    Grief. It is Grief. Handing you back your coin.

上一篇：Success Comes to Cow Creek 下一篇：Streets