747 3 4
|
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
|
200
|
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…
|
109574
|
not that we ever had before
|
