It’s nice to have a lake to love me,
that can see under all my disguises—
where there is only animal survival

I’m tired of life and its troubles.
Whoever lives as long as I have or will
grows weary: it’s inevitable.

 How could I not have taken him home:
his eyes shone a gentian blue,
his name was Jesus, and I found him alone

Each of you who writes reports illness, pain from love
      spilt

I was looking 
for the two 
black men

Tide was in when we waded into the idle current.
In a scorpion’s spinal curve, it would tow us miles
into the ocean’s briny green-white surf.

Such is the way with monumental things:
to make us see and wonder.

We hurl ourselves over
      then over again
into the wall

He stands before me as a jester stands,
mocking my position. I bid him speak

All I can offer you now is weathered—
this face, these hands. I've lived too long underground.
My eyes cannot fix on the distance