Olin Lake
Behind us, the channel half-clogged
by bullhead lilies slips back
into the smoke of yellow tamaracks
clouding the shore and we glide
on the silk of a dream so deep, herring
break the surface from eighty feet below.
I am this hand skimming the water.
I am these eyes dazzled by light.
I am you whom I loved
before the seas were parted.
I am in the creak of wood,
old harmony of oars.
