Allen’s Lake

It was the window I remember, and the moment

Before jumping to the woodpile and white grass.

It’s the blue breath of palominos

And the swinging gable-light, the frozen stubble

Against my wrists each night I crawled

Under the gate.  And once, where the waves lipped

The rotted dock rafters, though I’d been warned,

I climbed out on the last slim beam

That jutted high across the water.  Boots slick

against the frost-crystalled edges, I tightrope

stepped at least ten feet, and stopped there…

From that height, close to the star-bleared

Pine tips, I felt that lake take me into account.

I was another far object steeped

In the slow mist, a sound gathered together

Past a crooked beach of bank mulch

And snapped sticks, a catch

In the half-whistle of oaks.  This was years

Before I’d seen how easily a body could get lost

In that mud-stumped, Hind’s County cold,

Or how old saw-toothed boards

Are bridges over bones that sink

To the bottom of winter.  I stood there,

Shivering, five minutes of luck, confident

That even falling could last forever.  Arms scarecrowed

For balance, I listened in my careful

Backtracking to the wind

Tumble into a north-facing gust, white ribs

Of moon breaking on the water, one layer

Of light coming down,

                              one layer of light slipping under.