there is nothing to do but straighten the rug
now that the subjects are gone.
my ass is slung
my aura, punctured
weak current forces 
beyond me, ambivalent 
to me
though i grab the sky.
I understand in the end I 
will be spit into the ocean 
with the plastic and silt and human waste.
I will settle to the bottom pierced and pecked
by blind creatures who don’t appreciate their novelty.
pieces of my cold skull,
long imploded, 
will never be discovered
and the waves will break,
scattering what little permanence they’ve known
Anthony Hughes lives and teaches in the Rio Grande Valley. He has a strong back and his mom still thinks he's handsome.

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