9 / 23 / 18
Bog rust blooms across my knees as I kneel
in the brown-green-black-murk of rot
and you. Last night the will-o-the-wisps shouted
and bobbed, bright with electric swamp fire,
skimming the water’s skin to lead the
lost traveler to someone else’s end,
search and rescue strobe of good intentions.
They didn’t find you, but they pulled a body
from the muck, a tense fluorescent fairy ring
until they knew he wasn’t you.