You put a bag around your head and walked into the river.

    You

    walked into the river with a bag around your head and you were

    never dead，

    in your land of scythe and snow——

    game on the banks of your

    mental styx——

    for the double

    audience

    of smoke——

    ——

    You pressed a coin into his palm and stepped across the water.

    You

    stepped across the water with a hand on his arm and he was

    silent and kind as you

    shoved off， toward the smoky coils

    of the greek-seeming dead——

    You‘d been trying to sleep.

    Found yourself here，

    in the mythocryptic land——

    The river

    ——

    had widened to a lake. You were anchored

    in the shallow boat

    by his faceless weight——

    And on the green shore you could see their vapored

    residue， how they could

    smell it， those two， your blood‘s

    curl and shade——

    If you

    ——

    slit your wrist you could make them speak.

    If you

    slit your wrist you might be able to sleep， he‘s

    got a hand on your arm，

    he wants you to see——

    Dead， dead：

    he wants you to see.

    Ferryman， Sandman， head

    a featureless

    cloud——

    Grief. It is Grief. Handing you back your coin.