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Clade Song Left

4 PM On The Banks Of Rough Creek

I will not call this beautiful.
The dogleg of the river, swollen
sick after a storm with precious, new
soil. The steep undercut stores trout
deep beneath its tongue. The horses
in the distance are beads on an abacus
prancing along a thin horizon.

I lost breath looking at my feet
looking less and less like feet, but
like the skin of salmon cut open
by the maggots, now rotting on the hot
stones of August. The pretty, delicate
things I promised will swallow me whole.

A patching of black birds hovers lower
and lower overhead, their wings barking.
I want to call this beautiful.
The river meets the sky

and I have chosen my grave.







Clade Song Right
Dahut 2

Joe Dahut is a poet, living and writing in the Florida Keys. His poetry, prose, and photography have been published in Little Patuxent Review, The Drake, The FlyFish Journal, and Tail Magazine, among others. He was a collegiate pitcher at Drew University and earned his MFA in poetry from New York University.