after Ferdinand Hodler

A person can see six swans when they look
to the edge of the wasabi-smeared lake.

The second swan turns its head into the water
as its protruding body gets whiter.

The first swan tilts like a Chinese spoon
thrown down onto the surface of a soup.

The mountains reflect as the color blue.
Lake-inverted rectangle, two dark bars.

The fourth and fifth are absolutely sure;
their necks glow with passionate erasure.

The third swan glued to the thin varnish—
the stem bends in and the head vanishes.

The final swan points its eyes out to sea,
the great gazpacho of eternity.