The hemlocks burn to cut out wrinkled bunting on the lake

Where loons lure you alone to dive fathoms down in the black.

But no one peers in millions of pin holes pricked in the vault.

It’s only a distraction, but it’s all that you’ve got.

Can’t get no satisfaction since nineteen sixty-five.

The boy’s palm cups the coney asleep in her fur-lined nest.

The gust lifts a girl’s peasant blouse winking two brown eyes sight less,

Urged on by sleight of children until stingy dripping death.

It’s only a diversion, but take all you can get,

And prey upon the virgin you cloister in your life.

The lightening bugs fly constellations.

The whitening hiss sings conversations.

The synapse takes up incarnations.

The clouds of ash flash faces of fire.

The knife cuts clean curves across clear grain but tears at the knot.

The notes circle the silence around the tick of the lock.

The words above the cascade sway in the arc of the plot.

It’s only a delusion, but better that than not

Held down beneath confusion and then spit out alive.

Untitled (Pleasant Lake, Maine), 2011