The Lake

This lake means nothing to me now.

Though beautiful and deep, green skies
are shallow where she holds my shadow.
Weightless as a stone. The woods beyond
transmit in static dreams of fire they've
never known. Still nothing stirs to memory
as her silence calls beyond the fall.

A voice is talking to myself that makes my own
not mine at all. Herself she knows no maker
now the sun drowns in her black and brown.
There is no Sabbath hour for her, just the angel
of death and the man in the moon. Thin ice

has many ways to tell, night strokes across
her still face tiny ripples through late afternoon.
My shoes have tightened round my feet
from standing where all time is water.

Five senses are a sacrilege I fear she knows
me all too well. Such hopes rest with the woods
alone. Those trees so new of mystery where
Orpheus ascended and the stars were shaking
just below the waterline.

Corpsed laughting with quiet hysteria.