by Henri Cole
After the sewage flowed into the sea
and took the oxygen away, the fishes fled,
but the jellies didn’t mind. They stayed
and ate up the food the fishes left behind.
I sat on the beach in my red pajamas
and listened to the sparkling foam,
like feelings being fustigated. Nearby,
a crayfish tugged on a string. In the distance,
a man waved. Unnatural cycles seemed to be
establishing themselves, without regard to our lives.
Deep inside, I could feel a needle skip:
Murmur of the saw.
First published in Poetry, September 2019.