another turn at the lake
It
always starts at the peak of the same
cheek
bone:
if
I were to stroke into
that bone a mountain
path into me, and then slip
with
the conspiracy of the available moon, to where above the birches the light
continues.
And
if your throat
in
such a moon were the shadow
of
a day before that day, where we hid, remember? And enough of you pooled and
cooled there in the basin
of
it. And if I could,
if
I were first soft enough and sloe, ignorant enough
strong
enough then hard
enough—eyes—yours—and
too your electric breath would surge out
of
that water. And girl I’d cup
you
and shake you awake and ease and lean into
the
moon of you, what there is of you, rising, while the night
crepes
itself on the ajar
doors
of
stores, factory floors, milking pales, bows
of
boats tied to ends of piers,
and
then the sterns of them all: chrome bumpers…
bedposts…girl,
while such crepe
wafts
and drifts, shimmers
and
glints…I’ll see into the well
of
all things, I’ll be that well
of
all things. And I’ll see you there,
breathing,
dry,
alive. And I’ll bring you
up.
I’ll bring you up and breathe
for
you for the rest of all of our already exhausted lives.
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