by Matthew Thomas Bernell I like the idea that, really, there is only one poem, and it is the song we all sing to ourselves, not as ourselves, necessarily, but as each other. Don’t you remember the story, now? The one about the beautiful singer who strutted into a river, singing, and drowned? And it was you. You were the singer and the river and everything else, too, even those moths that punctuated swampy darkness. But how did that one end? Tell me again. Wasn’t it a while a