this is what the youngins
wish for: the view of the river
from the passing bus window
where they wait. some dream of drinking
its murky waters to make their insides boil;
some wish to bathe themselves—a baptismal
for the scented oils of sulfur; still more
(like me) wish to spread their ashes
over its bubbling surface where the banks break
simply to be carried away
and to finally discover where
the damp brown waters finally end.

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