lake ozark, mo. —
in the blanched sweep of headlights
on a solitary black highway,
crooked like a broken finger,
darkness spits out yellow dashes
then swallows them,
swallowing
we come to the cabin
in those syrupy, humming
summer evenings,
and we split open our hurts
like we’re cracking walnuts
to the core.
we bleed easy
in that feral,
gummy heat.
but in the winter,
i watch the lone fishing skiffs
like stray mallards bobbing on the still water
off in the distance.
i watch the burnt-wood drift of smoke
off the lake,
the surface scudded and scalloped
by wind.
i stanch,
sterilize,
whiten my wounds
in that
baptismal chill.
in the winter, i sip in
the first draught of fresh air
in that teeth-aching cold,
(the first, full,
bursting inhale
in so long)
and i breathe out,
a tender remembrance
of a spring sun.
microcosmic 