by Robert Okaji

No gravestone marks the river's corpse.

How do we fill that emptied crevice, the untouched bed?

Words lie unmade in boxes on the floor.

Shimmering, it dots its final black point, looks up.

Light traveled eight minutes to rim this bowl.

I emblazon one name and cannot lose the other.

The bumbling cicada seeks passage through two closed windows.

To some you are protein. Nothing more.

This day, too, will evaporate.

As night absorbs us and the sky, marking our collective body.