The mews keep sulking overhead
as an imprint roars on water.
This is the caligo, young cloud
which rains attar onto chain link.
Follow under the bony bridge
and trail the firth, slim and beading,
a boildown of the lake in which
flowers for the first time grew tongues
and cutlips sprang up like arrows.
They thrust past the greening blooms, slick
with an algal coat. Go chin first
into the murky bed beneath
suspended leaves and rippled orbs.
Go catatonic in residue
milked from the stones that lay before
this false funeral. Children laughed
at the lip of the shore, digging
catacombs now sawn asunder
by foam’s gentle lappings. With mouth
open from beneath the press of air,
gaze into the still world above,
quiet as the surface swelling,
and swear away the nightlit earth.
Now wait for the lungs to desist.
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