The road is a road from here except there is no road.
There is only the spray of the cold high river.
And the accidents, though these
are purely anecdotal, as philosophers posit there are none,
given choice can only school in currents of freedom.
Their stories are identical to the god I wept at this morning
who insists on his own nonexistence,
his oxygen that presses down around me,
choking my soulless animal sounds. So,
I can only believe in what occurs here,
my own face crumpling into tears, its own exegesis:
that I ought to live,
a little while more, perhaps,
or even carry the weight of a simple stone
into another day,
though, I think I see the mergansers glance up from
the just-melted river and the branches
from its wintered trees hang like
stained casements of ruined structures
as if the polite world has borne this argument for centuries,
simply by waiting for stone to settle
in riverbeds.

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