Dead deltas
from the mountains,
their waters
blackened flumes
to the sea,
strangulated and sour
it spits on the shore.
A misted coastline,
jagged and neverending.
This state of perpetual
before the mountains.
In the tall reaches
the dark swallows,
the birdsong is dangerous.
On the plains near
the rivers, pushing their yellow
waters up onto the bank,
the rice grows.
Somehow, carp swim between
in the muddied water.
Dead space,
murky fish, with faces flat
and foreign.
The nights oppressive,
no breezes,
dead children in the street
-magnolias in the gated gardens.
Some creeping mist
in the lungs, it settles deep.
Rooted tree, centuries old
to hold into place
the neverending death
in the dying deltas.
[Inspired by Duras' The Lover.]
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