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 Aug 2018 entropy
drought dry only a fortnight, and no trace
of the swimmers--not a bloated bass or a skeletal carp
only a few lily pads burnt russet by the sun

all else, perverse interlopers from modernity:  
bullet banged beer cans, truck tires,  
and the ubiquitous bottle water plastic
waiting patiently for the next ice age

no sign of one fish that emitted a last gilled gasp here

deep beneath the bed though
progenitors rest, theirs and ours,
antediluvian, Permian, as permanent as the word allows
my footfalls above them today
tomorrow silent where they lay
 Aug 2018 entropy
 Aug 2018 entropy
The taste of honey is on her lips
The fragrance of myrrh is on her skin
Soft, brown, delicate to touch
Adorned as an angel and a goddess
Her subliminal voice is like a muse's
This I know and believe
My five senses would not betray me

— The End —