Frost on the rotted dinghy, its oars
heavy like the mud that welcomes
ducks on the first day of hunting.
He replaces her eyes' absence with the sky's.
His window does not look but fronts the river.
She was the patron of his faith, of his loss
of faith. He was not looking -
the ducks, the hunters were there
anyway. By noon the frost was gone, he
launched the dinghy like a Victorian
in order to dredge his face from the ripples, then
reassemble a carnivore. Eat.
- David Howard, Avon River (Christchurch)
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