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 doe that startles
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

My words are bad acreage
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
There is a boat & a man moving his line
He’s throwing longer & longer threads
to the still dark