What Soaked Wood Finds in the Silt

 

Ray Succre

 

 

A little lower, to regard the point reached,

a struggle-head summoned his wits,

and stopped still as a gone dog

that haunts old curbs.

 

He wore on his chin a beard, had such eyes

at noon that the rest of him was invisible,

and snipped asunder whole, like a severed

gourd.

 

His eyes, having settled, recited

wails or the glib preach, however

he could bear it.

 

So felled was this fuck that his twin

was a many-dead mountain of ice.

 

He had stopped climbing in a sigh and shrug.

It was good enough.

 

So the man should be, at length,

in the skin alone, and with a sigh, so he is.

 

That was the last fight of him,

a relaxation cleft from the world,

and needed slowly. 

That was the end.  That was the start.

 

 

 

Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and baby son.  He has been published in Aesthetica, BlazeVOX, and Pank, as well as in numerous others across as many countries.  His novel Tatterdemalion (Cauliay Publishing) is forthcoming in early 2008.  He tries hard. 

 

For inquiry, publication history, and information, visit me online: http://raysuccre.blogspot.com