I must be in one
of those funny moods again
(if funny’s even the right word)
          the images easy enough to pick from
          whether rinsed grey
          or blooming maroon
the sky somebody else took
midnight blue
with stardust pentameter
          I’m thinking of cold water
          you don’t mind bathing in
          somewhere in Scandinavia
a voice, yours or the last album
we listened to drifting to us
as we break the lake’s membrane
          and if not that (you’ll see)
          my indecision hasn’t wavered)
          a dress, a road,
a photographer whose name matters little
in a silent stretch of land
I’m half-dreaming of
          and I wish this isn’t some
          toxic desperation with its ginger sting
          galloping to the fore
but the words already here
collapse like trains of dominoes
in my head you wouldn’t see what I can