Swansong
Swans, simply silvered
from the stalactite mines
of yesterday's magnetic waters.
Swans.
Long necks in swooping grace
like heroins from a Russian novel -
feathers flouncy and shiny,
wind-tunnel-brushed-back tidy.
Swans.
Webbed feet making ploppy pictures
on marble floor.
Beaks outlining haughty arcs
in the monsoon-thick July air.
Sanguine eyes, beady and shallow,
probing like blunted bayonets.
Swans.
Arriving to sing,
departing with silence.
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