Thursday, July 2, 2009


Our rowboat has drifted
Into the middle of the lake,
A willow leaf, fallen on gray wool
Turning slowly in the rain.
In the cabin window, your yellow shirt sings.
Pans steaming.
Fat birds collide in the wet black limbs outside,
Skunk cabbage horns choke quiet.

Walking home from town late, and drunk,
I gleam on the gravel road like a ceremonial Chinese robe
From a distance I see you,
Your face like the circle of the moon

Inhabiting its dark box of sky.

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