I will forgive the circumstances
of my fate, the crippled swan
who sinks. Our catastrophic bodies
distort all purpose; the weak will learn
to float atop the lake propelled by
other's water rings. And beauty has
no function but to kick the heart,
to haunt the mind, to wrack the senses.
In a clear pool, the match of evening
strikes the surface, the mutant swan erupts
in feathered white and orange flame.