Swollen Lake

Of the Isles. Share,
yield, shorten
leashes indefinitely. Don’t
run over the butterfly
or dragonfly or
moment. No one complains. Take a wider
breadth. The drinking
fountain is an island
in standing water
you can’t reach—for now.


Thoreau Said It

“Not till we are lost, in other words not till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves, and realize where we are and the infinite extent of our relations.”
― Henry David Thoreau, Walden

Still getting lost
a little bit more
to find herself. Criss-
crossing Central Park
in the Ramble
passing by the Gill,
she laughs aloud
at the promise
of accidental
disappearances. Lean
into it and go
with a random choice
when the path forks. When
fear of planes
losing altitude fades
into the amplified echo
chamber of a sax
being blown
under the Glade Arch.
The sun offers some
answers, but she’d rather
have black cherry, black locust,
oaks, sycamore, and cucumber
magnolia trees camouflage
them. Rather forget
to panic this time. No
deadline surrounding this land.

Our Trespasses

Again she asks
the water
droplet on a corner
table who owns

the land. Who
owns you—precious

liquid, tiny reservoir
of truth? What’s

an embarrassment
of papers mean
in a flood? Or,
incurable thirst? I’ll mop

you up—but
I won’t buy.