Voices drift across the lawn
and form in the shape of clovers. A slight breeze
bezels the fishpond, lens
of grainy light, black
cord covered with electric tape. Kneel
on the concrete. Tile, sedge.
Koi ghost out
to meet you, blunt-
edged hunger curving
Take this bract that rises and subsides.
Butterscotch or red and white,
their bodies slick
as sorrow, lathered
with the cold, unseemly weed.
Elsewhere, there's a party.
Clink of glasses, square of kitchen light.
Elsewhere, a pair of pliers
its implicate beak.
A hooded sweatshirt
gestures from the bottom of a lake.
Here, put these on. You're going to need
the leather gloves I tossed off in the shed.
Speech is just an instrument to register
the night. I offer
you no hook, no tool,
nothing to make fast
no metal implement with which to cut or mend.
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