Return

— Bill Hollands

Halfway through I found myself
in woods. I mean actual
swamp. I was a child here
after all, unearthing
rusted cans as men perched
in trees. Did I mention
the trees? Ancient banyans, mesh
of mangrove root reaching down
under water. Where water ends
and land begins is hard
to say. I lay in muck. What was it
you said? You don’t remember
do you
—something
along these lines. It was the tone
that reached me, call of one
seaside sparrow. I got up. Mud
spread thick across my face.


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