Morning expands one rib at a time   
speaks through the pinktops of pines On the porch
I write to a friend whose mother has passed
Blue fog is a grey doe that scares at my cough
I drink black water from its eye

This isn’t about half-dreamt things
The veil over the lake about to boil a man
It’s too quiet to answer anything but the tongue-
colors of the east    Fern-light slices from a mandoline

Hands on my knees.    moths at the screen saying light
I think of taking my friend’s grief     for him holding it
above my head & wading out.     It is clear I can see the sand
I tell myself this is helping    this is what the heart looks like working

Each step.     the outbreath
A boat & a man moving his line
He’s throwing longer and longer threads
to the still dark