Adam Reynolds


The river runs and runs into it like horses, running

over tin cans, car tyres, wristwatches. There is a girl

wearing a green dress, at midnight in the wilderness

there is a mountain’s shadow; rotting seawater


empties into the mountain, there is a deity here

biting on a snake, dead kings in the mountainside

are sleeping under spring, as the dried-up women

streaming the valley disassemble into smoke



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