Poetry - 27 June 2012
(photo art by J.W. Bullard)
Across the wide mouth of water
Sat my beloved ready for me.
My eyes focused on his out-of-focus face
And knew that it was over.
The water rippled a thin oil sheen,
Casting an ill rainbow to the bottom.
I wish, therefore, it must not be real.
My lines, he told me later, consist
Of murky reed pulled from too far.
I am too far gone to reconcile with you,
You who sit across the lake, filled
With prayers that fall below.
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