Sunday, February 3

annual lake song

&&&&&we are not this everyday thing
(warmest light&silver ring)
a magic spell, i give a little whirl, i say,
the ----- lake
is a desperate girl & i
spread this brittle earth
upon my knees & sigh
for i refuse to freeze,

the sun goes down (a perfect blue)
every year behind the smoke-stacks of the factory,
a disc, a fireball-
& the plumber on bicycle gives me his card
even as i say, "I won't call!
my love is far from this icy land,"
and I ignore them all.

they ask my why & i won't say
i hold my long-lost heart so far away but
staring out over the lake won't quite suffice.
(i think a little silence would be nice,
to be in my own thoughts this moment would be nice.)

i hold out my flowers to the city
in my white skirt, in my artificial grace
but the wind moves right through & blends
my countenance with every other face
believing there may be something sweet beyond a momentary thrill-

as the fish throw themselves at the concrete,
and the birds move in for the kill

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