Wednesday, June 12, 2013


There is more algae on the lake
than last spring, the grounds
lacking  care. A  crane
wades in  shallow water. He becomes
a straight edge for drawing
that line between sun and shade.

 The light is stark
exposing the smallest
speck on leaf or skin,
the hairline rust
on our Hibachi grill.

Under the pines, the wind blows
sweeping flimsy things back
into the shadows.

We hold hands and leave certain words
out of the scene. Like the talc-white bird
we want to mark a boundary
 without  crossing  over.

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