At the corner where roads
intersect beyond the harbor,
beyond the last driveway,
the last dock, the last pier,
one last stretch of stones, a
last gasp spreads itself
to join the dying great lake
where six swans swim white
against the firmament.
The lake has fallen.
Stones surrender to muck
and weeds. The swans are
unreachable, motionless
except to bend their sweet
elegant necks in the cold deep,
gliding effortlessly.
This is what it means to be
alone, without thought
or intention, stuck here
on this island's end, knowing
you will always be lost.
Out there, beyond the glimmering,
you see the faintest shimmering,
the ghost of all you've left behind.
No comments:
Post a Comment