Lover at the Lake
Woman,
if you were to turn your cheek
to
me, and the slip of the available moon, where above
the
birches, continues.
And
if your throat in such a moon were the day’s fragrance
pooled
and cooling in the still bowl of it.
And
if I were supple enough.
And
if I were hushed enough.
Lips—and
your astonished breath—woman—I’d cup
your
head and ease you back once more alive
and
lean into the moon of you rising and waxing…
but
I wait. While your face shimmers and
glints.
On
the bottom of all things water
I
wait for every ripple to be still so I can lean again into the lake.
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