At Burnt Lake
Tom Andrews
To disappear into the right words
and to be their meanings. . .
October dusk.
Pink scraps of clouds, a plum-colored sky.
The sycamore tree spills a few leaves.
The cold focuses like a lens. . .
Now night falls, its hair
caught in the lake's eye.
Such clarity of things. Already
I've said too much. . .
Lord,
language must happen to you
the way this black pane of water,
chipped and blistered with stars,
happens to me.
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