Collapsing In On Itself
A week-dead pike on local stone wall,
Probably dropped there by some passing seagull,
Meagre and dull, once fresh and full;
Almost the same as the moment it came,
But entrails have started to go.
(Are they ‘entrails’? I don’t really know.)
There are still the innards; the liver, gall, roe
I’d’ guess there’s a stomach;
It think it’s a pike – maybe perch but not haddock!
What is essential, its cardinal what-ness
Is something that shows every time i go past it:
Heading that way in shrivelling decay;
A body of glorious splendour that rots
Still falls in upon inglorious self in terminal rot-ness.
Collapsing In On Itself 5.26.2021 Birth, Death & In Between III; Circling Round Nature II; Arlene Nover Corwin
Arlene Corwin Poetry 