No one saw the thing,
rising from beneath
like so many other sad shadows slung out of mind
like bridge fishermen standing in rain pitch back heavy bottomfeeders, a silent sigh within. The plague then stayed unrealized, aloof by silent circumspec
and unable to waystay sick rot of solutions against regret’s
deep fear of receiving daily dictat from brainy haze of inward terror
imagined, unsought as grave plot advance purchase or plankless dock of lakey cottage. What a place to rearrive, still green murk stabbed by greyrot pilings
a viscous duckweed rimmed with coat like old paint-placed algaeic slime with shores of dead birch and browning pine.
We gazed out at dim dusk reflection on stillborn bleak mirror of water failing to disguise rifts of forgot memories,
and drove away knowing the thing would never just float on, sink, go away but stay to sway certain dream states in midst
of a thousand nameless sorrows unspoke as this.

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