Aeneas (sailing)

you like a fly glide

across the still lake

away from..

 

my shoes

on the sand, arms

flat, dead

lumber;

 

& you

indolent, leant

on the side, so

 

cool, inside

on fire,

 

say nothing;

& I,

too dead

to part my lips,

 

to say

your name,

 

trace

the lines the water makes

when you go.