No excuse of mine can shine over
motorboat gasoline attracted to the lake's surface
I should have known better.
Four quick summers between me and this Michigan town
benefit memory, but erased the old harbor
and filled the hole in the canoe.
Blurry is the view of the road
and the crafts shop on the other side of it
where the wind constantly jingles the chimes on the door
-- like corpuscles they move, rarely in unison.
I am now prepared to aluminize the great mossy rock
and collect the sound of the water and dragonflies,
and gather the water from around the lighthouse
until the lake bed is dry and hungry and screams
for black mud, bass and catfish
from Traverse City, an hour's drive away
Unless you do this indecent bridge a favor
a service charge might apply, but no garrotte.
Instead, the geese will rest on the glassy guck,
their wings pulled under the surface until they
can no longer be lifted but are heavy and moist,
almost translucent, yet being sucked down:
for the great rock's charming position, for the drippy guargum,
for a moment of silence or a surly greeting.
Ivana Ivkovic
copyright @ by Ivana Ivkovic 2000
