My brother drowned near the sandy shore
of the lake, not far from the waterfall
which continued to fall.
He was assumed by all of us to be enjoying himself,
up until
and for a few moments
or minutes following his death.
It was the headrush, he loved, of a breath
after a minute
or two minutes beneath the bubbling
mud fare of the surface. The hypoxic charge
of delirium and a thing
nearly seen. His body
clattered like an old branch against the leg,
my friend’s leg, my friend
whose slap was soggy and dull.
On the shore he laid like a fresh coat of paint
and looked brand new.
All of our humors were in motion the day we put him
in his newest suit—which was large
—and in the ground.
None of us said much or stayed long—we had things
to do and places to be. He sat in his box
like the happiest man in the world and said
“There is no perfect life.” He said
again and again “There is no perfect life
and no ugly waterfall.”