A substantial shadow in the shade of the shore,
a cool place
that give back the alpine sun’s shining,
its dappled back
like the lights that appear in the shoregrass at night,
and showing nothing.
Waiting. Watching. Wondering
if those eyes admit memories,
if my face is clear
beyond the lake’s spirituel lens,
my intention to cast a line.
My father brought me here, many times,
a legend passed on to him about a hidden tarn,
tucked beneath the cups of two peaks’ cirques,
a deep pool
shrouded by dense stands of spruce and juniper;
where an antediluvian intelligence ruled waters
as rarified as regal spirits,
striving only for survival,
what wisdom or ways
will the realm toward
an equilibrium in death’s dissolute diet.
A tailfin, larger than my hand, fans sand and silt,
mica and decay,
to light, taunting,
laughing at me,
lolling in a languid drift from the flutter of its fins’
a dismissive wave.
There is nothing in the pantry for her to make
and everything there is beyond her grasp,
anyway; a cup of milk may as well be
an Arabic anagram or
a ton of spoiled meat.
Eating, a broken clock, a reckoning of time
manifest in hunger, a gnawing knowledge
that something is missing and things will
be better somewhere, where? Where,
where there is eating, a broken clock,
a reckoning of time manifest in hunger,
where? Where are the rest? Eating?
A broken clock.
A reckoning of time.
In between, everything is missing but that
static quintessence of each second, the is where –
where. Where the is is, is an opaque reflection of
clouds on a cream-white opal, an ephemeral flash
of what was but is not is.
Is missing something.
Dreaming, a desperate plea, someone needs to be saved
as there’s no time left, what’s left has left her
out, left out, out left, gone, left, out, dreaming is
and out where, where? Where is is? Where is out?
Out where dreaming is the eating and a
reckoning of time manifest in hunger,
eating is, is dreaming is, is is but where?
A broken clock.
A dream. Eating. A dream.