I molt in the face.

The lake’s skin

Toughens this summer.

Yellow chintz hangs in the window,

Water pulls along my eyes.

Yet you stand nearby

Where I am not in love, and

Fire’s in the lake, paper boats

Sail off the island’s lip.

I lived there once

As air above the flames.

There are times a man’s torso

In the concave clench of love,

Makes an animal face.

At those moments

I want to send you a postcard

Saying slow dance, dusk

Thunder over trees, saying

I am not air. I am just

Not. Lift your head

And reach for me across the world.

Shouts from the island, tall pines

And a clearing where blueberries ripen

From their blood color of someone stabbed yesterday.

The boats have caught fire, cannot

Live in water. An edge

Of yellow in my mouth, I bite down

Hard. That face

Surging in the windowglass,

Is it mine? Someone’s opening the door

And I won’t look.