Walking along the lake edge, there is no ice in the water itself, only the brush and boulders wear the shroud of ice. As the waves hit shore, the splatter throws a thin coat on rock and branch, on washed up driftwood, on the red plastic ball. Under the water, in the shallows, a bed frame, a broken rounded brick, infinite mottled tones, grays, reds, yellows, rest in their gleaming.

a stone
   a stone
      a lie



What lifts the spirit?
What lifts the Gull and the Tern?
What lifts the soul?

The spirit flies because of
what circles the leaves in the stairwell.

There is something that passes
through a hollow bone
to call in the allies
that we enlist on our journeys.

Far out on the horizon something
lifts the huge swells on the lake.

What lifts the flames in the stone
fireplace other than the wood which
exhausts itself in burning the frozen air.



Looking out through the window glass at the dark
There are reflections of course,
Things that stare back at me.

I once wrote to you of your adamantine heart;
You thought I meant you were hard-hearted
When I really meant your diamond-like purity.

I meant to speak of the hiddenness,
The undisclosed vast expanse beyond ourselves
When I simply said "the dark."



The caress cannot be motionless;
it is by definition always in movement.
Jean-Luc Nancy

Fingertips drift along the inner
Forearm & linger at the wrist
Pulse is a heart thrum
Prolonged through extension
Distance, an urge
The insistence of rhythm
The hum of fluid rush
A finger print brushed
Along the flush of pink
Flesh brings almost
A quivering