Literature · Uncategorized

He knows that it is time to leave

He knows that it is time to leave.
He knows because of the corn he eats
and the fact that it is tasteless.
It weighs on him, heavy,
that he is finished with winter.
The snow and ice of course necessary
and well-navigated. He knows it
when he passes the decaying skeleton
of the home he once lived in,
reeking of piss and grease from the factory
where Olivia’s father once worked.
It is not the quiet that bothers him,
though sometimes he puts a kettle on the stove
just for some new noise.
It is not the vegetation, though he is sick of it.
Not the poverty, either, but something else.
He remembers, in Cologne,
standing on a bridge over the Rhine, watching the crest
of the current pulling the water to its tributary,
depositing into some other stream before sinking
into the deep, underground reservoirs and being drawn up a well.
He remembers being told that if he ever found himself
at the bottom of a well, he should keep digging.
It is the continuity, the system of recycled material,
the biome and being trapped in some foreign ecosystem.


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