to middle of lake
The burn swim
where echoes breed,
and return to die

The quick dive to
humid underwaters
of held breath
and silence.

In summer dunes slopes
to midnight edges of lake
we press our bodies to the sand
roots searching for sun hidden
underground.

White linen and naked lightbulbs
there is sand in the sheets.
there are children on the porch
there are napkins folded like sleeping birds.
until the dinner bell.

Dark winter presses its cheek
against her window spying
with closed eyes
into a room that
no one would know
is night-time
the white walls and white lights
lie the cold away.

every part of her believes it
but her feet.
pressing the cold calloused soles
of her feet together

No, they are lost Colonies
In a flat world
Trying to make
Sustenance from sawdust.
With no savages on the shore.

It is a silver snail between the lips,
cold as a quarter bitter as a penny,
Not even the aftertaste of chlorine.
Patchy F# smoker’s exhalations
Grit the teeth and the ball of cork
lolls in its belly.
Look down your nose
it looks back at you,
Blurred.

Look back at you.
On sticky tile bare toes clenched,
and chin lowered to chest, pool-parched lips
Took the Acme Thunderer and—
Blew.

echoes whipped from ceiling to surface to
bare-slick backs of streamlined swimmers.
Spines curved into fins—
Lungs collpasing slow as a circus tent
Even the bubbles tittered with reverberation
Faster.

Not a splash as pointed feet flicked at the ankle
Casting expanding triangles of wakes
And lips kiss-close to the plastic lane line
Breathed.
And finger-tips yearned for that two hand touch.

And now—
Blow.
Only shivers of sound.
Just spit it out.

That unmusical clang as it hits the desk.
Exposing distresses of is and was
escher-impossible to tell which is which.
Waiting for that hollow echo
of high ceilings and deep water.

You worshiped false ghosts instead of gods,
whose favorite sayings were silence.
And you built shrines seven million neurons high
and six thousand hopes wide.

In return,
all you wanted was to taste the sharp edge of lightening
or watch the flight of a ****** of confessions
or have an ******.

Expectations grow in reverse when you're in love,
like that.

You started off with angels and will settle
for a little paranormal activity.
But his telekensis was made of strings
and he never even pulled them.

And yeah, it's nice to have yourself
to yourself again.
But--
Wouldn't it be nice to have a broken heart,
to pull out of your chest to summon
a devil or a doctor?

And
there's nothing warmer than a lie,
but even ghosts have got to die.

You're there behind the window pane--
yes, you're whispering my name.
Every syllable fogging up the glass,
a medium for words elegant and crass.

But you can't love through a wall
and if I can't have your love,
I'd rather nothing at all.  

So even though you can see me; I am not really here,
Even though you can almost feel me; I'm not really near.