What made you go to the pond?
It didn’t seem planned. Was it a sudden
irresistible urge to look down
beneath the glaze of undulating water
and become the water’s darkest sorrow,
swallowing its dour bell’s promise
of something sacred? A summons
tolling beneath natural sound
where the rotating stars cannot find you
and the moon’s reflection too finite?
But it’s too late to ask these questions.
Your weed-clogged mouth unable to speak
in the undercurrent’s resonance of silence.
