jk  







                                       A few words


                                            The idea wasn’t to get lost until it was. Away from the lake, turned                                        
                                 around. Visible but hardly, and criss-crossed with cattails, loud leaves, the dim                                    
                                 canopy. This body of air, that body of water. Sleep is a risk. Camouflage is a risk.                              
                                 You could lose your mind, and find yourself sucking the stems of weeds. Or                                       
                                 tracking coyote tracks pressed into dirt by wheels. Stone wheels. So then you can                    
                                 say it:  wouldn’t you know, the unraveling of time. Of place. The beginning and                            
                                 restless pitching. And water trails, silver, across asphalt forever like narrow                             
                                 bellies of worms. Glow worms. Or not. Whatever they are, they luminesce, such                         
                                 a long time – here  where we’ve never been. So yes, kiss my throat. Say in English                          
                                – sycamore, Michigan, cut-leaved toothwort.
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