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.
Thank you, John.
Delicate and a poem to read and re-read