I am ankle deep chilled in this lake,
cradled by the hardest of rocks
incapable of warmth.
A single cloud wanders the dawn facing sunward.
It plumes in white ruffles,
a fledgling on its awakening horizon.
Wind encroaches, compelled by a distant night.
Rough stroking disturbs the water. Waves reach
with open embraces. They cannot cross the divide
to grasp and moor
the passing innocence.
Gusty fingers knead the soft and warm body, push
and tear its form; diminished,
it yields silently
to a thin, white scar.
The water cannot feign sleep. Neither can the cloud;
laid belly flat, it watches
movements
of unseen hands
reflected in a wide eyed blue
that wears a dove-feathered mask.
The sky between is a burning glass:
the sun strengthens in the gap
and thins the image to a ghost smoke.
A will upsprings from lightless depths:
the lake rises, crests,
and falls. How many times
did it fall at the foot of the shore
it was born to? Fall
onto the shore that
lies
with its coarse, gritty mouth
open.
It consumes every outpouring whole.
I lay my body on wet stone,
stare at a shapeless cloud crawling nowhere.
Cold laps at my cheeks.
A tide of relentless breaths.
The lake collapses around me
without plea or weeping.
And the voice of the shore at my back,
harsher than the rush of the wind,
speaks into my ear-
Hush, child. Do not struggle. Hush.
