39. Water Burial

Elena arrives to pick up the body from the beach, loads it into the launch.

It is wrapped in a white sheet, taped. He seems to weigh nothing.

The innkeepers promise to say nothing. The young Nicaraguan steers her

toward Costa Rica where huts seem to float at the verge of the lake

among grasses and the peasants there stand in solitude watching

as the boat approaches and enters the river that seems to have no entrance,

crosses the shore that is not defined as a shore, one minute here

and another there, not a destination, not a door, neither the river

nor the lake, but as with everything a continuous flow, like the flow

of words, the flow of stars, the flow of what you can never see.

The boat skims the surface of the water and at one moment he is there,

wrapped in his sheet, and the next he is not, one moment hers

and the next simply muck. He slides through a ribbon of light and is gone.

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