Kyle G. Dargan


~Provincetown, MA



Forget the lily-pads angled

up out the water, green lids

insects gnaw like winged goats.


Forget the hawk, who probably thinks

the feeling mutual.

Forget the pine needle garnishes,

gnats bounding the pond’s skin,

mosquitoes engrossed in bloody games of tag.


Matter of fact, forget green—

the way it proliferates, the way

it sways, reaches, turns brown.


Forget the sky’s false blue,

light’s refraction due

to the angle it strikes atmosphere.


Forget water, forget order—

how biology all makes sense

if you live long enough:


the frog gulps the fly, the bird

sucks back the frog, sediment

and maggots claim the dead bird, the seed

feeds off the dirt, the tree nests

the bird which eyes the frog.


The cycle—the zero sum—the reason we build coffins.




“Quagmire” first appeared in issue 1.1 of Bat City Review.