Island
We descended
to the island where the bodies were:
stinkless, scentless actually,
dreamlike in that they had no presence
save the feather waft,
soft in the late day breeze.
Ashram, why
are your geese plunked beside
the waterfront,
angled unnatural,
heads turned sweetly away?
Demure angle,
wing fold. This death
is recent, and it’s probably not nature,
but it’s nature,
because we’re nature
and I am trying to remember that.
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