(the End) Poem by Leslie Philibert

a river full of dead pigs
a burning moon
a child squatting in mud

was that it then, just that?
no trace of birth
or a cold tuber that might

seek helplessly your hands
wet with drops from a rusty tap
fingernails dark and underlined

that follow the trace of a fleeing star
an escape into the big black
over the wall, over the wall