Poem by the Charles River

P
It is their way to find the surface
when they die.
Fish feed on fish
and drop those beautiful bones
to swim.
I see them stretch the water to their need
as I domesticate the separate air to be my
breath.
These fish die easily.

I find my surface in the way they feed.
Their gathering hunger is a flash like death.
No agony
as if
my mind had eaten death.
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