Staring at the Lake in March, Contemplating Death
When you ripple
start at the back
sometimes you’re violent
I want you to crash
over me.
Endless, it seems
as you blend into the sky.
So I contemplate wading
One foot in
Then the next
I think I’d welcome
the cover.
It would be cold.
Would I go numb?
I would float of sink
bloated. A tragedy they’d
say. A watery grave.
discovered by a stranger
in a boat, or maybe
washed up on shore.
Too much decay,
She’s wasted away.
When he entered her
finally, such ecstasy
there was, she couldn’t let go
she clung to him
scratching his back
as they sink
to the deep.
