Sullen this morning,

grey, and dull as the eye

of one more dead thing.
How casually waves

slap the shore,
leave it shocked,

open mouthed

and silent.
The pier braced

against the lake
is the cowed spine

of a beaten woman,

the booted feet
of fishermen

on her shoulder-blades,
lures of bright metal

glittering like promises

through weed and rocks.
May the wind change

to the south,
snag his line

around branches

and submerged roots,
pale fingers tangled

in deep water
he’d said:

“It could swallow me.

I would sink and sink
and never touch

the heart of this lake…”