You insist that the world belongs to a stony-hearted goat-god— how every time we act, we enact his vileness; how this is no ecstasy, just a bad labored joke. Your body in spasm longs to strip the flesh, but if you do there will be nothing left but the busy bone-clatter of tactics. * I will listen instead to the river, cold as time, smelling of blood-brown leaves. Copyright © 2016 April Bernard. Used with permission of the author. |
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