A clear cold sunny 31 degrees.

*

At Burt Lake

To disappear into the right words
and to be their meanings . . .

October dusk.
Pink scraps of clouds, a plum-colored sky.
The sycamore tree spills a few leaves.
The cold focuses like a lens . . .

Now night falls, its hair
caught in the lake's eye.

Such a clarity of things. Already
I've said too much . . .

Lord,
language must happen to you
the way this black pane of water,
chipped and blistered with stars,
happens to me.


-- Tom Andrews