what waves lap the shore
of the small lake did they originate
in wind or lake’s breath from within
I feel what I feel I see what I see
deeper from the shore in woods’
second growth under spring’s pale
oak shade lie the white flowers
with their dreams of reins hanging
from nails hammered crudely into the rude-hewn
walls of a fallen shed I kneel
to pick the white flower
this will be the place
called the creek where no creek
flows but the land knows its own name
under gravel and in its puddle
around which boys gather to piss
in their breaking from play
the lake told this to itself and to girls
with long hair who would swim
finding cold currents to wind like vines
through their legs I will keep you with me
under water

Garden Center Venus de Milo

half size and limestone     this goddess never had
arms     no hand to hold the apple of gold
you can tell she knows she is a copy
but even so     among the birdbaths
anxious bourgeois rabbits gargoyles gnomes
waiting for homes on suburban lawns
she stands     detached     brazen yet
modest     regal in her drape that barely
covers the mons     in her corner     oblivious
to the commerce for which she was formed
dusty     unsurprised no one has bought her
or seems to mourn her unlooked for absence
in their yard     her softness in hardness carved
unsigned     ignored by neighboring angel
she is herself unwinged     to be worshipped here
goddess of love and beauty