The Crow is not the Ganges,
though I may have landed here
circuiting the taste of gasoline
and to wade out to
whitecaps of ash
a certain distance
from its banks.

But my body is not a body here.
It does not burn in the usual manner.
The indifference of the river
does it, expertly, so that I
no longer feel the thing
I believed I was.

Which is fire,
and a beautiful Crow
over
the holy filthiness
of my Ganges.

ph – June 2017, Algonquin Park