747 3 4
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Of course that’s seen
behind a screen. The lake
by day is patternless gray,
the O of breath-
stoked mirror or a chain-
smoked sky, slim fingers rising
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200
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The air is motionless. Not even a puff of a breeze. We sit on the front porch, swatting at mosquitos and watching fireflies. “Christ, it's humid. It's like wearing a wet towel.” Thunder rumbles across the lake, echoing off the water like a rolling suitcase on…
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118374
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not that we ever had before
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