Spring 2003 • Vol. XXV No. 2 Poetry |

In Earnest

Fall's gold is gone. The American will reek another week or two before the circling birds stop dropping black along the river's edge to feed upon the rotting fish. One marks this season by the stench of kings—some picked to bones, some bloated in the watery sun, some carried home by fishermen. A couple's lab has slipped its leash; it runs and will not be called back until it rolls in what remains, to mask its scent in throes of primal joy. A pack of boys casts stones at one that offers now as evidence its last thrashing in the shallows near the shore. I leave my footprints with the rest. Along this edge death is success; and its resolve to live nowhere in earnest, now here in every phase, is almost nothing, almost all.

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Miserere

By Michael Waters

Fall's gold is gone. The American will reek another week or two before the circling birds stop dropping black along the river's edge to feed upon the rotting fish. One […]

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