swamp thing hauls herself
through muck, whites of her eyes
glinting through a veil of duckweed.
she didn't start here. at least she thinks
she must have come into existence elsewhere--
visions of a desert, but even that place
was stormy and soaking, somehow.
effort multiplies; she punishes herself for wondering.
there is nothing to do now but find the exit.
the swamp is a labyrinthine library
of mosquito species, cypress branches
shelving indexes of spanish moss.
swamp thing rises from all fours
smeared with mud, dripping and screeching,
but the endless vegetation dampens the sound,
blending fury into distant bird calls.