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


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