At Burt Lake

    To disappear into the right words

    and to be their meanings. . .

    October dusk.

    Pink scraps of clouds， a plum-colored sky.

    The sycamore tree spills a few leaves.

    The cold focuses like a lens. . .

    Now night falls， its hair

    caught in the lake's eye.

    Such clarity of things. Already

    I've said too much. . .

    Lord，

    language must happen to you

    the way this black pane of water，

    chipped and blistered with stars，

    happens to me.