“At Burt Lake” by Tom Andrews

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 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.

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