This late heart,
heavy, salty, wet
and smooth as moonlight
glowing on the silvered
pines, has managed to survive
its foolish passions once or
twice. At night, the lake
becomes an ocean
in its sleep;
who am I
to contradict
its reverie?
Secretly, the black snake
glides into the water's bed
and dreams it is a butterfly
spotted red winged
dancing on each flower
like a summer zephyr.
Somewhere in a brambled
bush, the sparrow prays
for sunlit skies; the mole
beneath the clotted earth
imagines sight; this heart
of late, heavy, salty, wet
