Panic among the window-makers.
.
Here by the lake
in the duff beneath pine trees
light so bright at the crest of each small ripple
it becomes absence of knowledge. I can hear
the sway of branches
and the creak of an oarlock in the tethered boat
these lines in a notebook nonetheless
the loudest sound.
.
It's a story of lost and found and lost
and found again.
Here, where given time all things
become indigo.
The burden of not believing
that things will remain the same.
The mistress of bubbles.
In the timescale of childhood
it had always been there.
San Diego, and, in memory, a lake in New Hampshire, 7/2/03
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