Nancy Eimers
And the lake was a dark spot
on a lung
Some part of its peace was dead; the rest was temporary.
Sleeping ducks and geese,
goose shit underfoot
and wet gray blades of grass.
The fingerlings like sleeping bullets
hung deep in the troughs of the hatchery
and cold traveled each one end to end
such cold
such distances.
We lay down in the grass on our backs--
beyond the hatchery the streetlights were mired in fog and so
there were no stars
or stars would say there was no earth
Just a single homesick firefly lit on a grass blade
Just our fingers
curled and clutching grass
this dark our outmost hide, and under it
true skin.
