Need is to want as horizon is to sky.

Breaststroking across the mouthdark lake I was worried a stray sharp something might slice our bellies open.

Hands are the physical motors for our psychic motives.

But for the rustled cattails on the west edge we couldn't tell the night from the lake.

To speak to the lake breathe out on its surface. To speak to the sky, breathe in.

Pleasure is the stone without enough weight to sink.

I felt stupid underwater forgetting which way was surfaceward, know the trick now.

The opposite of noon is another noon.

Your bobbing outline faded into the night, the sound of water against your skin followed.

A wise person never enters a sacred place with unwashed feet.

We are not wise.

Abutters to the great monuments of faith are mostly unkempt shrubs.

The leeches in the lake like slivers of darker night flex around us.

It takes ten thousand nights to learn to sleep.

Wet hands up to the night sky: I close one eye: then the other: parallax: of hand: of star.

People are so beautiful and after noon more so. 

Loneliness is never correct.  

You on the other shore. You, far away, on the other shore.

Photo by Evan Flom