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 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.