MOT

Death is a day trip. I drowned myself
in the river and then got bored of it.
One can only spend so long small
talking with murk. My dreams, my firm
works, my honey and bread. It is time to
dine again. Enough fucking around. 


Watch now, as I emerge fully dry from the water
that could not stomach me, my mouth ablaze
with aphids and blue moths,
my fresh deerskin dress. There is no
myth here. Only the fact of my body
warming as it walks forth
into the clearing. Tell me again,
the name of your god.
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